Christmas Eve
12:06 PM—It’s 5 O’clock Somewhere
I’ve had my first sip of alcohol. I am driven to drink at such an early hour because Kristy and I are failures and Stacy is perfect. I feel like I’m reliving Christmases past. I feel like I am a kid again being scolded by both my parents.
Despite the fact that I have been driving for fourteen years in this little section of Connecticut, on the way home from the mall today my father decided to scold me for trying to get off the exit into Farmington “because it’s going to be way backed up.” Then when I continued on 84 toward the 72 exit that is the next closest to our house, he directed me to take the Route 6 exit instead and made me drive all the way down route six, effectively going 10 minutes out of our way to avoid (nonexistent) traffic.
I got home and started to prepare the shrimp because my mother and Stacy were not home yet, having left the mall 30 minutes before the rest of us. (They make secret side trips all the time.) The shrimp was still frozen because someone had not removed it from the freezer early enough, so I ran it under cold water. Yes, this is not an ideal method of thawing shrimp as it loses some nutrients and flavoring but given that it is noon and we are supposed to be at the Grandmonster’s right now, prepared shrimp in hand, I chose the only method that won’t take another 24 hours.
Kristy made the ziti last night. She cooked the pasta and the sauce so it would require only warming today. She preheated the oven.
Then in stroll my mother and the Wonder Sister. At this point, I am already in the basement preparing my drink because I must get buzzed to deal with the Grandmonster anyhow. As I come back upstairs, I hear the water being turned off and ask my dad, the culprit, to turn it back on. No, he informs me. My mother told him to turn it off. “Look,” she shrieks. “The shrimp is losing its flavor! You can’t do it this way!” She brandishes a raw, half-frozen shrimp in my face as proof.
“Ah, but you see, mother,” I say, “the shrimp are still frozen." She has no answer for this, so she goes on to search for the pasta.”
“Is Kristy cooking the pasta?” she asks. I inform her that Kristy is warming it in the oven. She opens the oven triumphantly to reveal to me that in fact I am wrong because there is clearly no pasta in the oven, so I point out that the oven is still preheating and that Kristy will insert said pasta into the oven when it reaches a temperature much greater than 145 degrees.
It is at this point that she realizes Kristy cooked the pasta last night. She starts a rant about how the pasta needs to be cooked now and mixed into the sauce. Yesterday was wrong. The pasta will be too soggy. But it’s already been done last night, I try to reason with her. “IT HAS TO BE DONE NOW,” she practically screams. “THE PASTA NEEDS TO BE MADE NOW AND MIXED IN WITH THE SAUCE!”
I tell her in a restrained voice that it is too late for that now and decide to walk away before my control snaps. I know she has cancer and I know she’s in pain and on a lot of drugs, but this—this is the old Mom that I used to butt heads with constantly. This is the judgmental, harsh woman that I fear turning into as I age.
As Kristy comes up the stairs, and I am heading into the living room to have my first sip of rum and Coke, I stage whisper to her:
“You and I are both screw-ups.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4:36 PM—Peace On Earth, and Goodwill to Men
Okay. One rum and coke, two glasses of wine, and a delicious meal later, things look better. We visited the Grandmonster, who was pouring Pinot Grigio. While I prefer reds, this white is not bad at all. Also visiting were my Uncle Jack and Aunt Maurie, my father’s older (half) brother and his wife. They call each other Mom and Dad and talk incessantly about how well they eat and how much they will have to exercise to burn off whatever naughty thing they have been enticed to eat by us. They see it as their personal mission in life to show fat people the way to being skinny. The wine helped get through that one, and now here we are back home with some wrapping and cooking and cleaning to get done for the evening, nothing overwhelming.
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11:50 PM—'Twas the Night Before Christmas...
At 6:10 tonight, my niece informed me that she had asked Santa for Butterscotch, the Furreal Friends pony that is 3 feet tall and costs three hundred dollars. Now, not that we have the money to get such a thing for a 10-year-old who is as irresponsible with her things as Victoria is (or that we would have the money to get a super responsible 10-year-old this toy anyway) but at this time, all stores including Walmart have been closed for at least ten minutes. Shit. This is the year she finds out the truth, I thought. I have been upset about this all evening because I know that she is at about the age when most kids no longer believe, but I can tell that she really still wants to believe, that she wants to be proven right about his existence. With everything going on in her life—her grandmother and primary caretaker sick with cancer, her parents totally unfit and she getting old enough to realize this about them, being made fun of at school—she really needs to believe at least for one more year.
I expressed my dread at her finding out to Kristy, who didn’t think it was that big a deal. Kristy was about that age when she stopped believing, she told me. I was too; I know that. But my life was like heaven compared to this kid’s. I talked to Stacy about how this is upsetting me, and she said that if Vicky wants to believe, she still will. I’m not so sure. She doubts too much in her life right now, and while she wants to believe, she needs just a little bit of help to do it. I told my dad. I told him how much it upsets me and how important I think it is to give this kid just one more year of being a kid.
She took the time to write him a letter before she went to sleep tonight, no small task for a kid that has a documented physical disability that causes her to be unable to write at the fifth grade level. My dad disguised his handwriting and wrote a letter back to her, telling her how very sorry Santa Claus is that he can’t give Victoria Buttercup this year and he hopes she can understand that there are a lot of poor kids in the world and he needs to be able to give a present to everyone. Santa Claus hopes that she will still like what he was able to give her, and he’s very proud of how she’s been doing in school.
It was the best that could be done. I hope it’s enough, the nudge she needs to be able to continue to believe in magic just a little longer. It was a small thing my dad did but it means the world to me that he listened to what was upsetting me and found a way to try to fix it. He believed in what I was saying and wanted to help. A little present to Victoria and me from Santa Claus, courtesy of my dad. Thanks, Dad.
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Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
Hartford Garbage Picking & New Mexican NASAns
In the suburbs in Connecticut, we have tag sales on Saturdays all year round unless it's absolutely frigid and there's a foot of snow on the ground. If you have junk to get rid of, you try to sell it first. Thrifty yankees and all that, you know. They say there are two seasons in Connecticut: Winter and construction season. That could be amended to winter and tag sale season very easily.
But here in Hartford, we don't have tag sales. We just put our old crap out on the curb before the weekend and by the end of the weekend, it's pretty much all gone. Of course, whatever's not gone will be picked up by the trash man during the week, but let me tell you, whatever is left by the end of the weekend is some pretty ugly crap. I saw an old armchair and ottoman from the 70's in Harvest Gold with tears in the cushions disappear this morning. Of course, what bothers me is when there is good stuff out there and I'm not in time to get it! I saw a great dresser, a little small for my needs, but it would have done until I could save up to buy what I really needed. An hour later, it was gone, before I had the chance to scrounge up the appropriate male to come help cart it up to my second floor apartment.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The space shuttle should land tomorrow in Florida. There was talk of having to use this base in New Mexico, which hadn't been used since the early 1980's for a landing, because the weather has been poor in California and Florida. The news was all about how the New Mexico base was not a great place to land but they'd have to make do if necessary. It really looked like they'd land in New Mexico until this evening, when they announced that the weather will clear enough in Florida for the shuttle to land there tomorrow.
I feel really bad for those poor New Mexico NASAns. First, they get told on national television and radio and in the papers that they are definitely the last choice for the shuttle to land. Then they get their hopes up that the shuttle will land there for the first time in 20 years. "This is our chance," they must have said to their fellow NM NASAns. " We will show them. Third rate, my ass!" I mean, there are people who have spent their whole NASA careers at this shitty little New Mexico outpost and for like one day they had the glimmer of hope that they would actually see some action, have a chance to prove themselves, be in the national spotlight. I bet there are many Americans that didn't even know there was a NASA location in New Mexico.
And now that is all taken away. Their chance at 15 minutes of fame is gone, and they must go back to their sad little lives as NASA rejects, working at the worst outpost NASA could assign them to, hoping that in another twenty years the weather might be bad enough to force a landing in New Mexico once again. Poor NM NASAns. I feel like sending them a condolence card.
But here in Hartford, we don't have tag sales. We just put our old crap out on the curb before the weekend and by the end of the weekend, it's pretty much all gone. Of course, whatever's not gone will be picked up by the trash man during the week, but let me tell you, whatever is left by the end of the weekend is some pretty ugly crap. I saw an old armchair and ottoman from the 70's in Harvest Gold with tears in the cushions disappear this morning. Of course, what bothers me is when there is good stuff out there and I'm not in time to get it! I saw a great dresser, a little small for my needs, but it would have done until I could save up to buy what I really needed. An hour later, it was gone, before I had the chance to scrounge up the appropriate male to come help cart it up to my second floor apartment.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The space shuttle should land tomorrow in Florida. There was talk of having to use this base in New Mexico, which hadn't been used since the early 1980's for a landing, because the weather has been poor in California and Florida. The news was all about how the New Mexico base was not a great place to land but they'd have to make do if necessary. It really looked like they'd land in New Mexico until this evening, when they announced that the weather will clear enough in Florida for the shuttle to land there tomorrow.
I feel really bad for those poor New Mexico NASAns. First, they get told on national television and radio and in the papers that they are definitely the last choice for the shuttle to land. Then they get their hopes up that the shuttle will land there for the first time in 20 years. "This is our chance," they must have said to their fellow NM NASAns. " We will show them. Third rate, my ass!" I mean, there are people who have spent their whole NASA careers at this shitty little New Mexico outpost and for like one day they had the glimmer of hope that they would actually see some action, have a chance to prove themselves, be in the national spotlight. I bet there are many Americans that didn't even know there was a NASA location in New Mexico.
And now that is all taken away. Their chance at 15 minutes of fame is gone, and they must go back to their sad little lives as NASA rejects, working at the worst outpost NASA could assign them to, hoping that in another twenty years the weather might be bad enough to force a landing in New Mexico once again. Poor NM NASAns. I feel like sending them a condolence card.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Fun Times with the Family Dogs
So my broken elbow was doing better until I went to visit my mother the other day.
My sister Kristy has a new dog, a spaniel mix she adopted from Puerto Rico. Katie is her name. Katie is young, maybe a year old. Having been a street dog, she doesn't have the whole concept of not peeing indoors down yet. She needs to be walked often until she is better trained, so when my mom was visiting my other sister, Stacy, for the weekend and Kristy was still away at school, I dog-sat Katie at my apartment.
She managed, in one twenty-four hour period, to piss on my hardwood floors once, shit on then twice, run away and make me chase her around the neighborhood once, and to puke on the couch, unbeknownst to me until I sat in said puke while wearing my brand-new rubber duckie pajamas. Fun, fun weekend, folks. Oh, and she barked at everything all night long.
So the other day, I went to visit my mother. Katie pees when people pet her, so I let her out onto the front lawn so she could pee on the lawn instead of the foyer when I greeted her. My dad's dog, Baby, followed her out, and my dog, Goober, was already outside. Goober is good without a leash; she always just follows me around. Baby is alright without a leash most of the time. Katie--not okay without a leash.
I let her pee and then dragged her back to the front door with my good arm. But, being one-armed, I had to let her go in order to pry open the door. She just sat there waiting for the door to open until a damn car drove by and she decided to chase it. And Baby decided to chase her. So then I had to chase Baby and Katie, which caused Goober to chase me. So there we were, an elderly cocker spaniel chasing a slightly overweight girl with a broken elbow chasing an anorexic Shit-zu with glaucoma chasing a hyper Puerto Rican mutt chasing a car around the neighborhood.
Then Katie found a neighbor's beagle on its front lawn on a lead and decided to play with him. She ran around and around the neighbor's front yard and I ran around and around after her and Baby until finally Katie ran over to me and rolled over onto her back so she could get some belly rubs! I was so angry but all I could do was pick her up in my good arm and not scold her since she had finally come to me. I turned around and called Baby but she wouldn't come because she was still enthralled with the beagle. I had absolutely no choice but to scoop her up in my bad arm and carry her home.
But wait. Goober, who always follows me everywhere, was not following me. And why not? Because she was too busy shitting on the neighbor's front lawn! And my hands were too full to pick up after her, so I did the only thing I could--I ran away. Goober eventually followed.
My sister Kristy has a new dog, a spaniel mix she adopted from Puerto Rico. Katie is her name. Katie is young, maybe a year old. Having been a street dog, she doesn't have the whole concept of not peeing indoors down yet. She needs to be walked often until she is better trained, so when my mom was visiting my other sister, Stacy, for the weekend and Kristy was still away at school, I dog-sat Katie at my apartment.
She managed, in one twenty-four hour period, to piss on my hardwood floors once, shit on then twice, run away and make me chase her around the neighborhood once, and to puke on the couch, unbeknownst to me until I sat in said puke while wearing my brand-new rubber duckie pajamas. Fun, fun weekend, folks. Oh, and she barked at everything all night long.
So the other day, I went to visit my mother. Katie pees when people pet her, so I let her out onto the front lawn so she could pee on the lawn instead of the foyer when I greeted her. My dad's dog, Baby, followed her out, and my dog, Goober, was already outside. Goober is good without a leash; she always just follows me around. Baby is alright without a leash most of the time. Katie--not okay without a leash.
I let her pee and then dragged her back to the front door with my good arm. But, being one-armed, I had to let her go in order to pry open the door. She just sat there waiting for the door to open until a damn car drove by and she decided to chase it. And Baby decided to chase her. So then I had to chase Baby and Katie, which caused Goober to chase me. So there we were, an elderly cocker spaniel chasing a slightly overweight girl with a broken elbow chasing an anorexic Shit-zu with glaucoma chasing a hyper Puerto Rican mutt chasing a car around the neighborhood.
Then Katie found a neighbor's beagle on its front lawn on a lead and decided to play with him. She ran around and around the neighbor's front yard and I ran around and around after her and Baby until finally Katie ran over to me and rolled over onto her back so she could get some belly rubs! I was so angry but all I could do was pick her up in my good arm and not scold her since she had finally come to me. I turned around and called Baby but she wouldn't come because she was still enthralled with the beagle. I had absolutely no choice but to scoop her up in my bad arm and carry her home.
But wait. Goober, who always follows me everywhere, was not following me. And why not? Because she was too busy shitting on the neighbor's front lawn! And my hands were too full to pick up after her, so I did the only thing I could--I ran away. Goober eventually followed.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Superman: The Dark and Scary Stuff
Away message: Crying. Sometimes it just needs to be done.
Lyrics playing:
It may sound absurd but don't be naive
Even heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed but won't you concede
Even heroes have the right to dream
It's not easy to be me
Up up and away from me
It's alright
You can all sleep sound tonight
I'm not crazy...or anything
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know Superman is a silly pop song but that is my anthem when things get like this. I went to school this morning. I had a meeting with my supervisor for my graduate assistantship. I've been meeting with her once a week this semester, and at the beginning it was me doing work and reporting to her. Then it was me not doing work because I was so busy working on Ned Lamont's campaign and telling her that as soon as the campaign was over I'd make up the hours. Then it was me telling her I wasn't doing my work because my niece was having issues and my brother is not a parent so my mother and I have to deal with her and oh, by the way, my mom is sick again and down to 98 pounds because she won't eat so I have to cook for her and have my niece over half the school week, which, by the way, is during my school week when I'm trying to complete the last three weeks of the semester as I work on two Master's Degrees and try to make up the work I've missed while taking two weeks off to finish the campaign. That we lost.
This week it was excuse me for not doing my work because I cracked the bone in my elbow last Thursday night by falling down a hill backwards (while drunk; I'm allowed to have a bit of fun, I figure, in amongst all this, and this is how I am punished for said fun), went to the ER a day later when it wasn't better, caught what I am still praying is a cold and not bronchitis, to which I am prone, from being in the ER, and found out that my mother has another tumor on her other arm now. And then of course there is the fact that at about 11 pm on Tuesday night, a night I planned on staying up all night to complete one of six 10 page papers I have due in the next week and a half, my computer broke. So yesterday I went to the Mac store and they tried a bunch of stuff and said yup. It's broke. Fix it by reloading the start up disc. Which, I might note, I spent all of yesterday searching for unsuccessfully. And now I've taken an incomplete for one course and am really really trying to not have to in a second course. And yes, the disc was finally found late last night by my parents. Phew. Light at the end of the tunnel. I can fix my computer after I go to this Graduate Assistant meeting today.
Nope, that's not the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. It's the other proverbial light--that of an oncoming train. Because while I was driving over to school my mother called. She's got another tumor on her back now. And do you know why my mom is calling me? Because I am the one. The one to whom she confides all the ugly things about having cancer. I am the strong one that can take it when she tells me about how bad the pain really is. She doesn't have to coddle me and make me feel better the way she has to with Stacy and my dad. Kristy's sort of like me, but still, I'm the one that hears the worst of it. And do you know what? I am honored. My mother has always--always--favored Stacy. This is not a jealous sibling rivalry, but fact that has always been so obvious that third parties comment on it. So now this is what my mother and I share. This is the tie that binds us.
I am strong enough. When I'm with her. But the result is pesky times like this, when I spend days crying at inappropriate times like during Survey Research class and when I'm having a meeting about my work (or lack thereof) with my supervisor and when I'm walking through the department to check my mailbox. And when I am ordering coffee at Dunkin Donuts. I just look at the clerk through blurry tears and in a calm voice order a medium french vanilla (cream only) (I used to take it black before the ulcers) and pay her and leave.
I finished the meeting and I know my mother called me because she wanted to tell me all the dark and scary things today. I will go there. I will listen calmly and offer words of encouragement or just a kind ear and a shoulder as needed, while I fix my computer so I can spend all night tonight doing the first 10 page paper that is now two days late, and I will not cry. But first I needed to come home. I needed to be in my own apartment and cry and sing along with the sad songs and have one glass of wine and cry. When I am done with this, I will wash my face and go to my mother's house. I will ask her if she needs me to tell my sisters and father for her so I can deal with them instead of her. I will do whatever it is that needs to be done. But for right now, I need to cry. All by myself. I just need to cry. And then I will go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm more than a bird, I'm more than a plane
More than some pretty face beside a train
It's not easy to be me
Wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees ...
It's not easy to be me
Lyrics playing:
It may sound absurd but don't be naive
Even heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed but won't you concede
Even heroes have the right to dream
It's not easy to be me
Up up and away from me
It's alright
You can all sleep sound tonight
I'm not crazy...or anything
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know Superman is a silly pop song but that is my anthem when things get like this. I went to school this morning. I had a meeting with my supervisor for my graduate assistantship. I've been meeting with her once a week this semester, and at the beginning it was me doing work and reporting to her. Then it was me not doing work because I was so busy working on Ned Lamont's campaign and telling her that as soon as the campaign was over I'd make up the hours. Then it was me telling her I wasn't doing my work because my niece was having issues and my brother is not a parent so my mother and I have to deal with her and oh, by the way, my mom is sick again and down to 98 pounds because she won't eat so I have to cook for her and have my niece over half the school week, which, by the way, is during my school week when I'm trying to complete the last three weeks of the semester as I work on two Master's Degrees and try to make up the work I've missed while taking two weeks off to finish the campaign. That we lost.
This week it was excuse me for not doing my work because I cracked the bone in my elbow last Thursday night by falling down a hill backwards (while drunk; I'm allowed to have a bit of fun, I figure, in amongst all this, and this is how I am punished for said fun), went to the ER a day later when it wasn't better, caught what I am still praying is a cold and not bronchitis, to which I am prone, from being in the ER, and found out that my mother has another tumor on her other arm now. And then of course there is the fact that at about 11 pm on Tuesday night, a night I planned on staying up all night to complete one of six 10 page papers I have due in the next week and a half, my computer broke. So yesterday I went to the Mac store and they tried a bunch of stuff and said yup. It's broke. Fix it by reloading the start up disc. Which, I might note, I spent all of yesterday searching for unsuccessfully. And now I've taken an incomplete for one course and am really really trying to not have to in a second course. And yes, the disc was finally found late last night by my parents. Phew. Light at the end of the tunnel. I can fix my computer after I go to this Graduate Assistant meeting today.
Nope, that's not the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. It's the other proverbial light--that of an oncoming train. Because while I was driving over to school my mother called. She's got another tumor on her back now. And do you know why my mom is calling me? Because I am the one. The one to whom she confides all the ugly things about having cancer. I am the strong one that can take it when she tells me about how bad the pain really is. She doesn't have to coddle me and make me feel better the way she has to with Stacy and my dad. Kristy's sort of like me, but still, I'm the one that hears the worst of it. And do you know what? I am honored. My mother has always--always--favored Stacy. This is not a jealous sibling rivalry, but fact that has always been so obvious that third parties comment on it. So now this is what my mother and I share. This is the tie that binds us.
I am strong enough. When I'm with her. But the result is pesky times like this, when I spend days crying at inappropriate times like during Survey Research class and when I'm having a meeting about my work (or lack thereof) with my supervisor and when I'm walking through the department to check my mailbox. And when I am ordering coffee at Dunkin Donuts. I just look at the clerk through blurry tears and in a calm voice order a medium french vanilla (cream only) (I used to take it black before the ulcers) and pay her and leave.
I finished the meeting and I know my mother called me because she wanted to tell me all the dark and scary things today. I will go there. I will listen calmly and offer words of encouragement or just a kind ear and a shoulder as needed, while I fix my computer so I can spend all night tonight doing the first 10 page paper that is now two days late, and I will not cry. But first I needed to come home. I needed to be in my own apartment and cry and sing along with the sad songs and have one glass of wine and cry. When I am done with this, I will wash my face and go to my mother's house. I will ask her if she needs me to tell my sisters and father for her so I can deal with them instead of her. I will do whatever it is that needs to be done. But for right now, I need to cry. All by myself. I just need to cry. And then I will go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm more than a bird, I'm more than a plane
More than some pretty face beside a train
It's not easy to be me
Wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees ...
It's not easy to be me
Friday, November 10, 2006
Seashells and Siamese Kittens
I remember Halloween when I was about 13 years old. My Aunt Bobbie, after whom I am named (middle name), was up from Florida. She was dying of brain cancer. She wore a kerchief on her bald head and smelled funny. This was not the Aunt Bobbie I remembered from visiting. That woman had hair; she wore glasses and was always laughing and making me laugh.
She sat in the recliner in the living room that night and we set up a video camera at the front door that broadcast all the little trick-or-treaters onto the television in the living room. She got to witness one last Halloween, adapted for her illness. She stayed in Connecticut for awhile, undergoing treatments and surgery. Details are blurry to me because of my youth. She flew back to Florida with her daughters.
The next summer my dad and I drove the white van she had left up here down to Florida. It was one of those funny ones that had a big bump behind the front seat. Was it the engine? Or the gas tank? I don't know; I just remember that it was cool. Her house was cool too. It was just a short walk from the beach. I spent the majority of that trip down at the beach hunting seashells or on her porch playing with her Siamese cat and its kittens. She had jars and jars of seaside treasures decorating her porch and yard, full of shells, beach glass, starfish, just everything I could imagine. There were sand fleas. You would dig and dig in the beach sand and the little sand fleas would scurry further down their holes. I could never dig far enough or fast enough to catch one.
One day Aunt Bobbie got mad. She yelled at her daughter because her friend had called and said she was coming to visit and why wasn't she here? Aunt Bobbie wanted to call her friend so badly to see if she was okay, to yell at her for not coming over. She could not get what had now become a child-like brain around the idea that her friend was in fact dead and could not have called her.
We flew back to Connecticut. On the plane ride up there was a cute older boy bragging about how he got to drive his very own golf cart while he was in Florida so I lied and said I had too. I never saw Aunt Bobbie after that. I heard about how she was in the hospital and they were just waiting for her to die, and then she did.
I loved the old Aunt Bobbie very much--the Aunt Bobbie with hair and glasses, who laughed and made me laugh, the Aunt Bobbie who had walked down to the beach so many mornings and collected all those beautiful treasures from the sea, who had bred Siamese cats. The Aunt Bobbie I had been named for.
The one who interfered with my Halloween with that stupid video camera, who looked scary with no hair and smelled funny, the one that didn't remember her friend had died, didn't remember me, and got mad for the forgetting...she scared me, disgusted me. I resented her for the attention she got from everyone. And then one day she was gone too and there was neither of the two Aunt Bobbies.
My niece had an argument with my mother the other day. She told my mom that she doesn't like to go over to the house anymore, that it's not fun anymore. That my mom isn't the same. My mom asked when things changed and Vicky responded that it was when she started living at the house during the week.
My mom said, "That's when I got sick."
My niece is ten. She is three years younger than I was with Aunt Bobbie, and she is so much more connected to Mom than I was to my aunt. Mom isn't as bad as Aunt Bobbie was that last year, but she has stretches of time that are worse than others, and the house is darkened by the cloud of cancer. Even the happiest moments in that house are tinged with bittersweetness because we are all aware now of how precious these times are.
What can I say to her? What can I do to make the dealing easier when I don't know how well I'm dealing myself? I just hope she is able to remember the seashells and Siamese kittens
of these times.
She sat in the recliner in the living room that night and we set up a video camera at the front door that broadcast all the little trick-or-treaters onto the television in the living room. She got to witness one last Halloween, adapted for her illness. She stayed in Connecticut for awhile, undergoing treatments and surgery. Details are blurry to me because of my youth. She flew back to Florida with her daughters.
The next summer my dad and I drove the white van she had left up here down to Florida. It was one of those funny ones that had a big bump behind the front seat. Was it the engine? Or the gas tank? I don't know; I just remember that it was cool. Her house was cool too. It was just a short walk from the beach. I spent the majority of that trip down at the beach hunting seashells or on her porch playing with her Siamese cat and its kittens. She had jars and jars of seaside treasures decorating her porch and yard, full of shells, beach glass, starfish, just everything I could imagine. There were sand fleas. You would dig and dig in the beach sand and the little sand fleas would scurry further down their holes. I could never dig far enough or fast enough to catch one.
One day Aunt Bobbie got mad. She yelled at her daughter because her friend had called and said she was coming to visit and why wasn't she here? Aunt Bobbie wanted to call her friend so badly to see if she was okay, to yell at her for not coming over. She could not get what had now become a child-like brain around the idea that her friend was in fact dead and could not have called her.
We flew back to Connecticut. On the plane ride up there was a cute older boy bragging about how he got to drive his very own golf cart while he was in Florida so I lied and said I had too. I never saw Aunt Bobbie after that. I heard about how she was in the hospital and they were just waiting for her to die, and then she did.
I loved the old Aunt Bobbie very much--the Aunt Bobbie with hair and glasses, who laughed and made me laugh, the Aunt Bobbie who had walked down to the beach so many mornings and collected all those beautiful treasures from the sea, who had bred Siamese cats. The Aunt Bobbie I had been named for.
The one who interfered with my Halloween with that stupid video camera, who looked scary with no hair and smelled funny, the one that didn't remember her friend had died, didn't remember me, and got mad for the forgetting...she scared me, disgusted me. I resented her for the attention she got from everyone. And then one day she was gone too and there was neither of the two Aunt Bobbies.
My niece had an argument with my mother the other day. She told my mom that she doesn't like to go over to the house anymore, that it's not fun anymore. That my mom isn't the same. My mom asked when things changed and Vicky responded that it was when she started living at the house during the week.
My mom said, "That's when I got sick."
My niece is ten. She is three years younger than I was with Aunt Bobbie, and she is so much more connected to Mom than I was to my aunt. Mom isn't as bad as Aunt Bobbie was that last year, but she has stretches of time that are worse than others, and the house is darkened by the cloud of cancer. Even the happiest moments in that house are tinged with bittersweetness because we are all aware now of how precious these times are.
What can I say to her? What can I do to make the dealing easier when I don't know how well I'm dealing myself? I just hope she is able to remember the seashells and Siamese kittens
of these times.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Deep in the Heart of Texas Part II: Wet and Naked
Goddamn I have been absentee lately. Not just from here but from my friends and family as well. Took on way too much this fall and now there's nothing for it but to push through each day until November 7th. But before I get too much into that, I'll finish up the San Antonio story...
So when we last left off I had packed for the trip. But...did I tell you about how I was assaulted by air puffs at the airport? It was a totally new thing that they did not have last year. You walked into the former metal detector but it had a plexiglass door on the other side and you had to stand there as air was blown on you in a short but strong puff. That air touched me in places no man has in months!
Okay so I asked them to do it again. Can you blame me? ;)
At the Atlanta airport where we changed planes, I stopped at the Starbuck's to grab an iced mocha. I know they're corporate and I don't care for their drip coffee at all, but their espresso drinks are okay. Also, they give health insurance to part time employees. But the Starbucks there did not have a working espresso machine. A Starbuck's without espresso? What in the hell is this world coming to, I ask you? I had to buy one of those fake frappuccinos you can get at the damn gas station.
But alas, we finally made it to San Antonio, checked into the hotel, and found a place to have a late lunch outdoors on the Riverwalk. It was Mexican food, of course; 1 out of every 2 restaurants in those parts is Mexican. The food was pretty good but more interesting was the wildlife: Ducks in the water were immediately attracted to suckers like my sisters and I, who would clearly be feeding them chips. Pigeons were, of course, more bold--to the point of obnoxious--walking all over our table and only dissuaded when we practically whacked them one. But the most thrilling was the water snake in the river, who hung out right near us the whole time. When I was in San Antonio last I wondered if anyone ever fell in when they were drunk. It wouldn't be so bad, as the water is only 3 to 4 feet deep. At least, that's what I thought before I saw the water snake. I know they're probably perfectly harmless, but come on! They are snakes!
After that, we retired to the hotel room for a nap. We had, after all, begun our day at 4:30 AM and had just drunk a pitcher of Sangria. I meant to only sleep for 1/2 an hour but next thing I knew it was after 9 PM. We went looking for dinner. We walked a ways down the Riverwalk in the dry heat of the night, weaving through fellow tourists, local couples, and kids out for some fun. Between the hotel and the mall was a fairly quiet stretch where we ran into a cockroach the size of my hand!! I kid you not. It's true: Everything's bigger in Texas!
We ended up eating a very late dinner at the Lonestar Grill, which had not bad food and a really, really funny karaoke dj/singer. Since no one would join in, this guy sang almost the whole night all by himself, at times pulling out a plastic blow-up guitar with which he rocked out. A metal-head Mexican stuck running karaoke night at a local chain restaurant. I felt kinda bad for him but he seemed to take it all in stride. There was also the lone drunk man who occasionally sang really off-tune version of 4 Non Blonde's "What's Up" and other bizarre songs to hear coming out of this guy's mouth.
Before taking off from there for the night we ordered shots of tequila at the bar. Having been a bartender, it took me only a second before I realized what the bartender meant when he asked if we wanted them fully dressed or wet and naked. God, I love bartenders' euphamisms!
So there was our first day in my favorite town in Texas. I promise I won't wait a month to get to the next day.
So when we last left off I had packed for the trip. But...did I tell you about how I was assaulted by air puffs at the airport? It was a totally new thing that they did not have last year. You walked into the former metal detector but it had a plexiglass door on the other side and you had to stand there as air was blown on you in a short but strong puff. That air touched me in places no man has in months!
Okay so I asked them to do it again. Can you blame me? ;)
At the Atlanta airport where we changed planes, I stopped at the Starbuck's to grab an iced mocha. I know they're corporate and I don't care for their drip coffee at all, but their espresso drinks are okay. Also, they give health insurance to part time employees. But the Starbucks there did not have a working espresso machine. A Starbuck's without espresso? What in the hell is this world coming to, I ask you? I had to buy one of those fake frappuccinos you can get at the damn gas station.
But alas, we finally made it to San Antonio, checked into the hotel, and found a place to have a late lunch outdoors on the Riverwalk. It was Mexican food, of course; 1 out of every 2 restaurants in those parts is Mexican. The food was pretty good but more interesting was the wildlife: Ducks in the water were immediately attracted to suckers like my sisters and I, who would clearly be feeding them chips. Pigeons were, of course, more bold--to the point of obnoxious--walking all over our table and only dissuaded when we practically whacked them one. But the most thrilling was the water snake in the river, who hung out right near us the whole time. When I was in San Antonio last I wondered if anyone ever fell in when they were drunk. It wouldn't be so bad, as the water is only 3 to 4 feet deep. At least, that's what I thought before I saw the water snake. I know they're probably perfectly harmless, but come on! They are snakes!
After that, we retired to the hotel room for a nap. We had, after all, begun our day at 4:30 AM and had just drunk a pitcher of Sangria. I meant to only sleep for 1/2 an hour but next thing I knew it was after 9 PM. We went looking for dinner. We walked a ways down the Riverwalk in the dry heat of the night, weaving through fellow tourists, local couples, and kids out for some fun. Between the hotel and the mall was a fairly quiet stretch where we ran into a cockroach the size of my hand!! I kid you not. It's true: Everything's bigger in Texas!
We ended up eating a very late dinner at the Lonestar Grill, which had not bad food and a really, really funny karaoke dj/singer. Since no one would join in, this guy sang almost the whole night all by himself, at times pulling out a plastic blow-up guitar with which he rocked out. A metal-head Mexican stuck running karaoke night at a local chain restaurant. I felt kinda bad for him but he seemed to take it all in stride. There was also the lone drunk man who occasionally sang really off-tune version of 4 Non Blonde's "What's Up" and other bizarre songs to hear coming out of this guy's mouth.
Before taking off from there for the night we ordered shots of tequila at the bar. Having been a bartender, it took me only a second before I realized what the bartender meant when he asked if we wanted them fully dressed or wet and naked. God, I love bartenders' euphamisms!
So there was our first day in my favorite town in Texas. I promise I won't wait a month to get to the next day.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Deep in the Heart of Texas, Part I: The Packing
Rum and Coke is an old drink, very retro, but it certainly does the job. Little tip from a bartender: Carbonated beverages make you drunk faster. And you know that old Bill Cosby skit about different drinks making different kinds of drunks? I believe it's true. (And if you don't, shame on you. Don't you know a classic comedian when you see one?) So anyhow, tonight it was rum and Coke.
I went on a little vacation after my professional success. Was gone most of the week this week. Took my sisters to San Antonio. I went to San Antonio in the winter of 2005 because my senile Grandma C. wanted to visit her long-lost brother one last time before she died but couldn't go on her own so I was nominated to bring her down but I said I would not do so alone, so my mother came along. It was a decent time once we dropped my grandma and Maiden Aunt Etta (a pair I must describe in a posting dedicated to them alone one day) off at her brother's, but one thing I noticed right away was that there was this gorgeous Riverwalk that clearly could not be enjoyed fully unless you were in the company of fellow young-uns. I mean, there were bars and late-night restaurants and clubs and such.
So my sisters and I made a drunken pact last Christmas to take a trip together to San Antonio, and after we won, excuse me, did what we did at my job, I finally had an opportunity to fulfill the promise. Of course, this involved travelling after Homeland Security imposed the no liquids and gels rule for carry-ons, but we forged on regardless.
It did force us to check a piece of luggage, something to which I am vehemently opposed since I suspect the luggage most often lost is that with a small transfer time at the hub airport, and we had only a 45 minute transfer time on the way down (which, when you add in the 30 minute early boarding time means only 15, isn't very long). I was personally not going to check my luggage but rather buy all liquid and gel products when I arrived in Texas, but once Kristy decided to check a duffle bag, I horned in with my hair products, which are the most expensive of my liquids and gels.
And since I'm on the subject of packing, on the way back(which's [and I know that's not a real word (like my use of double and now triple parentheses)] layover was only an hour [at Atlanta, no less, which is the worst airport to have to get around in]), I decided to check a piece of luggage myself, despite my golden rule. I figured if it got lost, I'd already be home so I'd have enough supplies to make do until it turned up.
Also, I bought too much stuff while I was there, a fatal flaw I have in which I think that anything I buy on vacation is free so long as I charge it. I even had to buy a new piece of luggage in which to put all the new stuff I bought (skip the rest of this paragraph if you're a man): 2 new t shirts, one green saying "Texas" with a retro star in a square, the other brown and punk rockish saying, Hard Rock Cafe San Antonio (I know, cheesy to buy a Hard Rock t shirt but the brown with yellow crabby-looking writing convinced me it was almost cool); a tank top with the artwork of Rosie the Riveter emblazoned on the front and back (hence my new profile pic); 3 bracelets--one cuff-style with inlaid Mexican mother of pearl and onyx in a rose patter, one brass saying, "live, love, rock," and one a collection of small layered brown beaded bracelets and indigo beaded bracelets; a shot glass in the shape of a cowboy boot stating, "Don't mess with Texas"; a necklace with two strands of multi-sized emerald, turquoise, garnet, and clear beats; two boxes of Mexican jumping beans (for my niece); a small barette of onyx and mother of pearl; a box of Alamo shortbread cookies for my dad; a purple Mexican skirt for my niece; a pottery dish with a frog's head and feet at either end (I heart frogs) and another that is very artsy with purple and green coloring; two matchingly distressed posters to be framed and put on opposite sides of my couch in my future apartment of Calamity Jane and Annie Oakley; an owl magnet for my mom's birthday (she loves owls); 5 hand-crafted glass swizzle-sticks (I collect them but only glass ones); a woven pink, olive, and black blanket; a tortoise from a local San Antonio glass-blower (for myself; turtles represent feminine power and longevity); and several pairs of earrings--four black freshwater pearls on each dangling clip of silver (I only do silver, white gold, or if I were rich, platinum; not ever yellow gold), two pair handcrafted by Mexican artisans, one containing a blue sapphire-colored piece of oval glass above four separate cylanders of wood above diamond-shaped silver pieces all hung from long isosceles triangles well below the lobe; and two pieces by Jody Coyote, my favorite earring artist--one with a long silver strand curling in on itself in a snail-like fashion with two turquoise and two bronse beads along the outermost coil, and the other two inch-long chains of silver (one hanging behind and one in front of the lobe), one ending with a daisy shape centered by an onyx and the other with a long cylander of silver.
Wow, I feel dirty after actually writing all that out.
Anyway, as I was packing up my return luggage that I would check, I pondered. See, on the way down, both my sisters' luggage had gotten notices that they had been searched by the TSA. So as I packed the bag I would check on the way back, I thought about something: I bet myself that not one of our three bags would receive that TSA notice, and here's why--on the return trip, you are much, much less likely to get searched and here's why: 1. A suicide bomber wouldn't do it on the return from a trip but on the first leg; 2. (And most importantly) If I were a TSA/HS agent, I would NOT want to go through someone's dirty underwear to see if there were a bomb I was unable to pick up upon x-ray and chemical inspection.
I was spot on. None of us was searched. Though Kristy's duffle had broken straps anyway, which the airline refused to reimburse.
I went on a little vacation after my professional success. Was gone most of the week this week. Took my sisters to San Antonio. I went to San Antonio in the winter of 2005 because my senile Grandma C. wanted to visit her long-lost brother one last time before she died but couldn't go on her own so I was nominated to bring her down but I said I would not do so alone, so my mother came along. It was a decent time once we dropped my grandma and Maiden Aunt Etta (a pair I must describe in a posting dedicated to them alone one day) off at her brother's, but one thing I noticed right away was that there was this gorgeous Riverwalk that clearly could not be enjoyed fully unless you were in the company of fellow young-uns. I mean, there were bars and late-night restaurants and clubs and such.
So my sisters and I made a drunken pact last Christmas to take a trip together to San Antonio, and after we won, excuse me, did what we did at my job, I finally had an opportunity to fulfill the promise. Of course, this involved travelling after Homeland Security imposed the no liquids and gels rule for carry-ons, but we forged on regardless.
It did force us to check a piece of luggage, something to which I am vehemently opposed since I suspect the luggage most often lost is that with a small transfer time at the hub airport, and we had only a 45 minute transfer time on the way down (which, when you add in the 30 minute early boarding time means only 15, isn't very long). I was personally not going to check my luggage but rather buy all liquid and gel products when I arrived in Texas, but once Kristy decided to check a duffle bag, I horned in with my hair products, which are the most expensive of my liquids and gels.
And since I'm on the subject of packing, on the way back(which's [and I know that's not a real word (like my use of double and now triple parentheses)] layover was only an hour [at Atlanta, no less, which is the worst airport to have to get around in]), I decided to check a piece of luggage myself, despite my golden rule. I figured if it got lost, I'd already be home so I'd have enough supplies to make do until it turned up.
Also, I bought too much stuff while I was there, a fatal flaw I have in which I think that anything I buy on vacation is free so long as I charge it. I even had to buy a new piece of luggage in which to put all the new stuff I bought (skip the rest of this paragraph if you're a man): 2 new t shirts, one green saying "Texas" with a retro star in a square, the other brown and punk rockish saying, Hard Rock Cafe San Antonio (I know, cheesy to buy a Hard Rock t shirt but the brown with yellow crabby-looking writing convinced me it was almost cool); a tank top with the artwork of Rosie the Riveter emblazoned on the front and back (hence my new profile pic); 3 bracelets--one cuff-style with inlaid Mexican mother of pearl and onyx in a rose patter, one brass saying, "live, love, rock," and one a collection of small layered brown beaded bracelets and indigo beaded bracelets; a shot glass in the shape of a cowboy boot stating, "Don't mess with Texas"; a necklace with two strands of multi-sized emerald, turquoise, garnet, and clear beats; two boxes of Mexican jumping beans (for my niece); a small barette of onyx and mother of pearl; a box of Alamo shortbread cookies for my dad; a purple Mexican skirt for my niece; a pottery dish with a frog's head and feet at either end (I heart frogs) and another that is very artsy with purple and green coloring; two matchingly distressed posters to be framed and put on opposite sides of my couch in my future apartment of Calamity Jane and Annie Oakley; an owl magnet for my mom's birthday (she loves owls); 5 hand-crafted glass swizzle-sticks (I collect them but only glass ones); a woven pink, olive, and black blanket; a tortoise from a local San Antonio glass-blower (for myself; turtles represent feminine power and longevity); and several pairs of earrings--four black freshwater pearls on each dangling clip of silver (I only do silver, white gold, or if I were rich, platinum; not ever yellow gold), two pair handcrafted by Mexican artisans, one containing a blue sapphire-colored piece of oval glass above four separate cylanders of wood above diamond-shaped silver pieces all hung from long isosceles triangles well below the lobe; and two pieces by Jody Coyote, my favorite earring artist--one with a long silver strand curling in on itself in a snail-like fashion with two turquoise and two bronse beads along the outermost coil, and the other two inch-long chains of silver (one hanging behind and one in front of the lobe), one ending with a daisy shape centered by an onyx and the other with a long cylander of silver.
Wow, I feel dirty after actually writing all that out.
Anyway, as I was packing up my return luggage that I would check, I pondered. See, on the way down, both my sisters' luggage had gotten notices that they had been searched by the TSA. So as I packed the bag I would check on the way back, I thought about something: I bet myself that not one of our three bags would receive that TSA notice, and here's why--on the return trip, you are much, much less likely to get searched and here's why: 1. A suicide bomber wouldn't do it on the return from a trip but on the first leg; 2. (And most importantly) If I were a TSA/HS agent, I would NOT want to go through someone's dirty underwear to see if there were a bomb I was unable to pick up upon x-ray and chemical inspection.
I was spot on. None of us was searched. Though Kristy's duffle had broken straps anyway, which the airline refused to reimburse.
Friday, August 25, 2006
It's All Good
I wish I could be more verbose about this but there's no other way to put it . . . everything turned out just fine! :)
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Cancer-Dealers
Here's the thing about the lump (which, for some unnamed reason, I'd rather call a bump): I knew I had to keep it a secret. That's why it was so important to write about it here--because no one in my family could know but I needed to let it out somewhere.
No one who had to personally deal with my mother could know. Until I couldn't tell them something, I didn't realize how much I'd come to depend on each of them in the last year and a half. I confided in all of them different things, and if you added my family members all together, you came up with one complete best friend.
But I also knew that each of them just couldn't go through with me what I had to go through right now. All of them had lived through three major recurrences of my mother's own cancer. Each of them had come to terms with what it meant to lose my mother. Each had come to terms with the idea that maybe they didn't have to. Each was told no, the hope had been wrong. The cancer would kill her in a year. Each had heard that death sentence from many different doctors, the best in the field. So each came to terms again with the idea that she'd die. Soon. (When you're talking about the rest of someone's life, a year is soon.)
Each heard that she was in remission--remission--a word we never, never, ever expected to hear. A miracle, the doctors said. No one, especially my mom, could believe it was true. They must have gotten her files mixed up with some other patient's. She wasn't supposed to have remission. She was supposed to die.
It didn't last. By fall--9 months after our lives as cancer-dealers started--she had it again. Surgery. They removed the new lesions. 6 more months, they said. She was in remission again--a word I now recognize for its truly fickle optimism. 10 months this time, then cancer again. Surgery again. Out in time for the once-a-year family reunion.
Now who knows? 6? 9? 10 months? We'll take it, whatever it is, but it leaves a bitter taste in our throats, this new remission, because we know what is around the corner at the end of this latest purgatory, even if we don't know how far down the road this corner might be.
* * *
How could I enter into this precarious set of peaks and valleys that is my family's life the idea that I might--might--also have cancer? I couldn't. Not yet.
So I began to play a game in my head. When would I tell them? Not now, when I hadn't even confirmed if there was reason to be concerned. What about if they decided to do a mammogram? No. What about if they saw something on it and decided to do a biopsy? No. What if the biopsy was positive and we needed to consider treatment options?
. . . Probably not. If I had a mastectomy? Well, I couldn't hide that. But probably the best thing to do would be to wait. Tell them after when things would be done, when things would be okay or not okay but when I'd know, or when they'd know.
I understand now, see. I know what it is to worry, to await each test, each doctor's visit, each surgery. I know what it is to measure your life in hospital visits. It's horrible enough to undergo that waiting for one you love. To undergo that for two you love? Unbearable. I mean it. Just . . . unbearable.
No one who had to personally deal with my mother could know. Until I couldn't tell them something, I didn't realize how much I'd come to depend on each of them in the last year and a half. I confided in all of them different things, and if you added my family members all together, you came up with one complete best friend.
But I also knew that each of them just couldn't go through with me what I had to go through right now. All of them had lived through three major recurrences of my mother's own cancer. Each of them had come to terms with what it meant to lose my mother. Each had come to terms with the idea that maybe they didn't have to. Each was told no, the hope had been wrong. The cancer would kill her in a year. Each had heard that death sentence from many different doctors, the best in the field. So each came to terms again with the idea that she'd die. Soon. (When you're talking about the rest of someone's life, a year is soon.)
Each heard that she was in remission--remission--a word we never, never, ever expected to hear. A miracle, the doctors said. No one, especially my mom, could believe it was true. They must have gotten her files mixed up with some other patient's. She wasn't supposed to have remission. She was supposed to die.
It didn't last. By fall--9 months after our lives as cancer-dealers started--she had it again. Surgery. They removed the new lesions. 6 more months, they said. She was in remission again--a word I now recognize for its truly fickle optimism. 10 months this time, then cancer again. Surgery again. Out in time for the once-a-year family reunion.
Now who knows? 6? 9? 10 months? We'll take it, whatever it is, but it leaves a bitter taste in our throats, this new remission, because we know what is around the corner at the end of this latest purgatory, even if we don't know how far down the road this corner might be.
* * *
How could I enter into this precarious set of peaks and valleys that is my family's life the idea that I might--might--also have cancer? I couldn't. Not yet.
So I began to play a game in my head. When would I tell them? Not now, when I hadn't even confirmed if there was reason to be concerned. What about if they decided to do a mammogram? No. What about if they saw something on it and decided to do a biopsy? No. What if the biopsy was positive and we needed to consider treatment options?
. . . Probably not. If I had a mastectomy? Well, I couldn't hide that. But probably the best thing to do would be to wait. Tell them after when things would be done, when things would be okay or not okay but when I'd know, or when they'd know.
I understand now, see. I know what it is to worry, to await each test, each doctor's visit, each surgery. I know what it is to measure your life in hospital visits. It's horrible enough to undergo that waiting for one you love. To undergo that for two you love? Unbearable. I mean it. Just . . . unbearable.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Happiness Hangover
It's been a week since I had what had to be the best day of my life so far. I worked really hard all summer on something and it came to fruition. I never thought when I started this job that we'd actually pull off what we did. I wish I could share the details here but my job comes with a no blogging rule, so I really can't talk about it. Let's just say that I experienced a huge victory and now have employment for another three months. (And with any luck, we'll end up changing the country in the process.)
I had to put the lump out of my mind from the day I found it until the end of last week, or I never would have made it through several 18 and 20 hour days in the beginning of the week. I did. I didn't tell anyone, except for a couple of people who read it here, of course, and contacted me. I promptly told them to call me in a few days; I just couldn't even think about it.
I succeeded very well in not thinking about it. It's easy for me to not remember something I'd rather forget. I succeeded so well that I forgot to call the doctor for 3 days after I could have. Oh, but what glorious days they were. There was the celebration that went to all hours of the night, ending with about 7 people crashing in my hotel room; there was getting to sleep away half of the next day after weeks of nothing but late nights and early mornings, weekends included. There was the flood of emails and phone calls congratulating me and wishing me luck. I had a happiness hangover for 3 days.
Then it wore off.
I had to put the lump out of my mind from the day I found it until the end of last week, or I never would have made it through several 18 and 20 hour days in the beginning of the week. I did. I didn't tell anyone, except for a couple of people who read it here, of course, and contacted me. I promptly told them to call me in a few days; I just couldn't even think about it.
I succeeded very well in not thinking about it. It's easy for me to not remember something I'd rather forget. I succeeded so well that I forgot to call the doctor for 3 days after I could have. Oh, but what glorious days they were. There was the celebration that went to all hours of the night, ending with about 7 people crashing in my hotel room; there was getting to sleep away half of the next day after weeks of nothing but late nights and early mornings, weekends included. There was the flood of emails and phone calls congratulating me and wishing me luck. I had a happiness hangover for 3 days.
Then it wore off.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
I Never Did
In high school there was a day in health class where all the girls were separated from all the guys, and they spoke to us about our Bodies. They explained the changes of puberty and the important things we'd have to do from now on for our health. One was, of course, doing monthly self-breast exams. There was a video to demonstrate. There were pictures on a flyer. There was a fake rubber breast with a nipple that wasn't colored differently from the rest of the rubber. (Guess they wanted it to be realistic but not too realistic.) Do it every month, they reminded us.
I didn't do it.
There was a big push on one of the local news stations a couple of years later to do monthly self-breast exams. My mom got all into it, and even got this hanger that went on the shower nozzle with pictures and instructions so you'd remember and know how to do it. She asked me if I was doing it and I said yes.
I didn't do it.
I go to the gynecologist yearly. She asks me every year if I perform self-exams and I say I do.
I never have.
My mom got cancer. Not breast, but still she got cancer. Now I thought I should be even more aware of such things and said to myself, I should start those monthly self-exams. I thought about the people in my family--both my mom's and dad's side--that have had cancer. I really should do it, I told myself.
I never did.
Tonight for some reason, over 10 years after I was first told to do it, I did it.
There's a lump.
I didn't do it.
There was a big push on one of the local news stations a couple of years later to do monthly self-breast exams. My mom got all into it, and even got this hanger that went on the shower nozzle with pictures and instructions so you'd remember and know how to do it. She asked me if I was doing it and I said yes.
I didn't do it.
I go to the gynecologist yearly. She asks me every year if I perform self-exams and I say I do.
I never have.
My mom got cancer. Not breast, but still she got cancer. Now I thought I should be even more aware of such things and said to myself, I should start those monthly self-exams. I thought about the people in my family--both my mom's and dad's side--that have had cancer. I really should do it, I told myself.
I never did.
Tonight for some reason, over 10 years after I was first told to do it, I did it.
There's a lump.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Anal F@#k
Mom had surgery today. It was up 2 hours early this morning so we could all take turns getting in the shower then rushing down to the hospital for 8 am check-in so we could wait. We waited for hours. They were behind. Mom fell asleep after awhile, having had the first drug injected. I fell asleep too, sitting up in an uncomfortable chair in the prep room.
She went in eventually.
I was sick, had been for the past couple of days. I went out to the car and laid down to try to sleep for an hour or so; it would be about 2 hours before we heard anything. When I came back to the waiting area after a somewhat successful nap, I read a bit of my book distractedly. There was a little boy, maybe six, with his grandmother. Eventually I heard something from this boy's mouth. I thought for sure I must have been mistaken. Surely I had not just heard this boy say . . .
anal fuck.
So I looked around furtively but no one else seemed to be disturbed by anything so I went back to reading my book. The grandmother muttered something to him. Then I very distinctly heard the boy carefully pronounce, as if it were three separate words . . .
a . . . nal . . . fuck.
Oh-kay. No denying it this time. Still, no one else seemed willing to admit they had just heard what I had so I filed it away under bizarre happenings to share with someone later in my brain.
Eventually after an extra hour from what was predicted to us, Mom's radiologist, followed by her surgeon, came and told us things had gone fine and she'd be fine. We could see her in a couple more hours. We went out to grab some food and then Stacy and I sat at Mom's bedside for over four hours, letting Kristy go home and rest up a bit before she came back to spend the night with Mom. (Mom hates being in the hospital at night alone.)
Dad came home after visiting her after work. He was worried about Kristy, how tired she looked. She didn't get much sleep last night, he told us. So he was going to go over at 4:30 in the morning and had to leave by 6:30. In his own polite way he was telling Stacy and I we had to go relieve him then. Stacy waited. And waited. She looked at me and waited some more.
Finally I pointed out that I, though having gotten some sleep the night before (which by the way so had Stacy), had also been sick the past couple of days on top of having to work like 12 hour days including tomorrow. (Stacy, a teacher, has no job this summer.) Eventually Stacy stepped up and said she could go at 6:30 if I'd relieve her at 8. Because you know that hour and a half would fucking kill her.
And . . . bitter Tina steps out here . . . never once did my dad decide in all the time that I cared for my mother FULL TIME on top of working a FULL TIME job (which Kristy is not doing right now) that perhaps I could use a bit of fucking help.
Not even when I asked him.
She went in eventually.
I was sick, had been for the past couple of days. I went out to the car and laid down to try to sleep for an hour or so; it would be about 2 hours before we heard anything. When I came back to the waiting area after a somewhat successful nap, I read a bit of my book distractedly. There was a little boy, maybe six, with his grandmother. Eventually I heard something from this boy's mouth. I thought for sure I must have been mistaken. Surely I had not just heard this boy say . . .
anal fuck.
So I looked around furtively but no one else seemed to be disturbed by anything so I went back to reading my book. The grandmother muttered something to him. Then I very distinctly heard the boy carefully pronounce, as if it were three separate words . . .
a . . . nal . . . fuck.
Oh-kay. No denying it this time. Still, no one else seemed willing to admit they had just heard what I had so I filed it away under bizarre happenings to share with someone later in my brain.
Eventually after an extra hour from what was predicted to us, Mom's radiologist, followed by her surgeon, came and told us things had gone fine and she'd be fine. We could see her in a couple more hours. We went out to grab some food and then Stacy and I sat at Mom's bedside for over four hours, letting Kristy go home and rest up a bit before she came back to spend the night with Mom. (Mom hates being in the hospital at night alone.)
Dad came home after visiting her after work. He was worried about Kristy, how tired she looked. She didn't get much sleep last night, he told us. So he was going to go over at 4:30 in the morning and had to leave by 6:30. In his own polite way he was telling Stacy and I we had to go relieve him then. Stacy waited. And waited. She looked at me and waited some more.
Finally I pointed out that I, though having gotten some sleep the night before (which by the way so had Stacy), had also been sick the past couple of days on top of having to work like 12 hour days including tomorrow. (Stacy, a teacher, has no job this summer.) Eventually Stacy stepped up and said she could go at 6:30 if I'd relieve her at 8. Because you know that hour and a half would fucking kill her.
And . . . bitter Tina steps out here . . . never once did my dad decide in all the time that I cared for my mother FULL TIME on top of working a FULL TIME job (which Kristy is not doing right now) that perhaps I could use a bit of fucking help.
Not even when I asked him.
Monday, July 17, 2006
The Peaks and Valleys of my Weekend
Saturday night I went to a baseball game, first one I've ever gone to. Ever. I understand about 80% of the game, so I was able to enjoy what was going on but even more than the game itself I enjoyed ingesting: $4 Guiness (it was Irish Night); a pretzel; soft serve ice cream in a mini Rock Cats hat; $4 Guiness (with sprinkles from the ice cream cross-pollenating); peanuts; cotton candy; cheese fries. I went home with a belly ache. Oh, and the Rock Cats lost.
Tonight we had a work party in a less affluent community than Greenwich. It was still fun. We had bison burgers (ew), salmon burgers (eh), and turkey burgers (yum). We also played Trivial Pursuit (the last 20 years edition, which I suck at, despite being alive for more than all of them). There was lots of drinking. And now I am home. And stinking of smoke, which I only do when I've been drinking too much.
I know this isn't the right thing to say but I really needed to get drunk tonight. We got bad news about my mom this week and she's going in for surgery on Thursday. It's two new spots on her liver, which they are confident they can remove, but it's another hospital stay for my mom, who tries to be brave but hates being there overnight. She got a bit depressed about it. Actually, she probably got much more than a bit depressed, if she was willing to admit even a bit to me.
I had to explain to my sisters why this time things were going to be okay so they wouldn't flip out (mostly so Stacy wouldn't flip out). I had to call my dad, who was at the cape for a few days, because no one else but me can deal with telling him things about my mom's health. He asks a million questions and expects you to have the answer to every single one, when even the doctors don't. He also needs to be reassured that things aren't horribly bad and Mom will be okay this time.
When I was done with all those phone calls, I was sitting on the floor in the corner of the office trying to hold in my own tears. There was no one left to reassure me that things will be okay after all, and after my mom told me that she was feeling depressed, I just keep thinking this one horrible thought. You see, she's beat the odds this long because of her perseverance and positive attitude, but now she's feeling a bit depressed. What happens when she decides she just can't put her body through another surgery, another round of chemo?
What happens when she's had enough?
Friday when I was leaving work, I ran into my Mike walking down the street. He came over and chatted with me a bit, standing a little closer than necessary. For the first time, I felt chemistry with him. There are still a million reasons why I don't think things with him would work but now there are two reasons why they might--the chemistry and the fact that he is a really nice guy. He came to the office Saturday morning to volunteer and the chemistry was still there. I can't help but think, though, that this might be a side effect of what's going on with my mom and not having anyone to lean on about it all. After all, the last time I started to get really lonely for a relationship was when things were going on with my mom. I don't know.
I'm confused. And worried. And trying to ignore all of it.
Tonight we had a work party in a less affluent community than Greenwich. It was still fun. We had bison burgers (ew), salmon burgers (eh), and turkey burgers (yum). We also played Trivial Pursuit (the last 20 years edition, which I suck at, despite being alive for more than all of them). There was lots of drinking. And now I am home. And stinking of smoke, which I only do when I've been drinking too much.
I know this isn't the right thing to say but I really needed to get drunk tonight. We got bad news about my mom this week and she's going in for surgery on Thursday. It's two new spots on her liver, which they are confident they can remove, but it's another hospital stay for my mom, who tries to be brave but hates being there overnight. She got a bit depressed about it. Actually, she probably got much more than a bit depressed, if she was willing to admit even a bit to me.
I had to explain to my sisters why this time things were going to be okay so they wouldn't flip out (mostly so Stacy wouldn't flip out). I had to call my dad, who was at the cape for a few days, because no one else but me can deal with telling him things about my mom's health. He asks a million questions and expects you to have the answer to every single one, when even the doctors don't. He also needs to be reassured that things aren't horribly bad and Mom will be okay this time.
When I was done with all those phone calls, I was sitting on the floor in the corner of the office trying to hold in my own tears. There was no one left to reassure me that things will be okay after all, and after my mom told me that she was feeling depressed, I just keep thinking this one horrible thought. You see, she's beat the odds this long because of her perseverance and positive attitude, but now she's feeling a bit depressed. What happens when she decides she just can't put her body through another surgery, another round of chemo?
What happens when she's had enough?
Friday when I was leaving work, I ran into my Mike walking down the street. He came over and chatted with me a bit, standing a little closer than necessary. For the first time, I felt chemistry with him. There are still a million reasons why I don't think things with him would work but now there are two reasons why they might--the chemistry and the fact that he is a really nice guy. He came to the office Saturday morning to volunteer and the chemistry was still there. I can't help but think, though, that this might be a side effect of what's going on with my mom and not having anyone to lean on about it all. After all, the last time I started to get really lonely for a relationship was when things were going on with my mom. I don't know.
I'm confused. And worried. And trying to ignore all of it.
Monday, July 10, 2006
I Get Invited to Greenwich
Saturday night...
A coworker from Greenwich had a bbq and invited all the cool kids to go. (Tee hee, I'm a cool kid!) He's actually staying in his uncle's home while the uncle is away for the summer, so he's not necessarily used to living in this ultra-rich community.
Greenwich, for you novices, used to be the richest community in the United States, recently outdone by Jackson Hole, WY.
Requirements for the BBQ: $5 for food, your own booze, and knowing how to get there.
I went to find my own booze at the local liquor store, Crazy Bruce's, and while there ran into the Big X's parents. I promptly ran down an adjacent aisle and called Rose so when I reemerged I clearly was Very Important and couldn't talk to them while I was checking out with my Guinness beer and local CT wine.
So I'm driving down to Greenwich with my Rand McNally directions (my favorite place for mapping, by the way--never done me wrong). I get off the exit and begin to measure miles to each turn....and discover Greenwich's secret: They don't want you to be able to find them. Clearly they can't get rid of those damn highway exit signs that say "Lake Ave., Greenwich" and so on on them, but beyond that, they do everything possible to not help you find your way.
Street signs are small and white and nonreflective in the dark, well-hidden by trees, as if they almost placed the signs behind said trees on purpose. I had 3 turns to make once I got off the highway, and at each I drove past and had to turn around to find it. (Of course, half of this might have been due to my gaping at all the Manses I was driving by.) I was driving down the supposed street that this guy lived on and came upon a small fence in the middle of the roadway. Should I proceed or not? I chose yes, and drove around two or three such fences until I came upon the correct address.
The correct address had an iron gate across the drive with an intercom system. This was the first time in my life I've had to use one of these systems. After dialing the wrong number once, I did it correctly and was told to "drive straight into the courtyard." I of course didn't know what the hell a courtyard was, but drove straight, hoping to find it. I did.
Rose was there but no one else yet. While we were waiting, we were instructed to take a look at the "Art Wing" so we did. I found out that they had a Picasso, a Rodan (sp?) and a Norman Rockwell in their collection. I said, "Very nice. Too bad my sister isn't here." Frankly, it was all lost on me. It really was.
The evening progressed. I had some wine and gave my Guinness to the host's friend, who was totally hot. We played Taboo, in which Eddie (my counterpart in another part of the state) and I are serious rivals. I had two super sucky teammates, which caused me to lose. (I am so having a game night up in my area of the state, where I have several good teammates ready to go.)
Things were wrapping up a bit later and we were trying to decide who needed to stay and who could drive home. Tai said she'd stay and Megan was passed out at the patio table so Eddie and I decided to move her. We got about 5 steps into the Manse when she puked over the (priceless I'm sure) wood panel flooring. I rushed her to the marble tiled bathroom and held her hair while she puked, brought her to the passenger seat of her car, and then cleaned up her mess in the bathroom.
Eddie's girlfriend drove Megan home and the rest of us drove back to the appropriately white trashy parts of Connecticut from whence we came, leaving the Pristine Greenwich cleaned up from White Trash Puke and understanding why they hide those street signs. Gotta keep that GDP for Greenwich up. Can't let Wyoming beat us again.
A coworker from Greenwich had a bbq and invited all the cool kids to go. (Tee hee, I'm a cool kid!) He's actually staying in his uncle's home while the uncle is away for the summer, so he's not necessarily used to living in this ultra-rich community.
Greenwich, for you novices, used to be the richest community in the United States, recently outdone by Jackson Hole, WY.
Requirements for the BBQ: $5 for food, your own booze, and knowing how to get there.
I went to find my own booze at the local liquor store, Crazy Bruce's, and while there ran into the Big X's parents. I promptly ran down an adjacent aisle and called Rose so when I reemerged I clearly was Very Important and couldn't talk to them while I was checking out with my Guinness beer and local CT wine.
So I'm driving down to Greenwich with my Rand McNally directions (my favorite place for mapping, by the way--never done me wrong). I get off the exit and begin to measure miles to each turn....and discover Greenwich's secret: They don't want you to be able to find them. Clearly they can't get rid of those damn highway exit signs that say "Lake Ave., Greenwich" and so on on them, but beyond that, they do everything possible to not help you find your way.
Street signs are small and white and nonreflective in the dark, well-hidden by trees, as if they almost placed the signs behind said trees on purpose. I had 3 turns to make once I got off the highway, and at each I drove past and had to turn around to find it. (Of course, half of this might have been due to my gaping at all the Manses I was driving by.) I was driving down the supposed street that this guy lived on and came upon a small fence in the middle of the roadway. Should I proceed or not? I chose yes, and drove around two or three such fences until I came upon the correct address.
The correct address had an iron gate across the drive with an intercom system. This was the first time in my life I've had to use one of these systems. After dialing the wrong number once, I did it correctly and was told to "drive straight into the courtyard." I of course didn't know what the hell a courtyard was, but drove straight, hoping to find it. I did.
Rose was there but no one else yet. While we were waiting, we were instructed to take a look at the "Art Wing" so we did. I found out that they had a Picasso, a Rodan (sp?) and a Norman Rockwell in their collection. I said, "Very nice. Too bad my sister isn't here." Frankly, it was all lost on me. It really was.
The evening progressed. I had some wine and gave my Guinness to the host's friend, who was totally hot. We played Taboo, in which Eddie (my counterpart in another part of the state) and I are serious rivals. I had two super sucky teammates, which caused me to lose. (I am so having a game night up in my area of the state, where I have several good teammates ready to go.)
Things were wrapping up a bit later and we were trying to decide who needed to stay and who could drive home. Tai said she'd stay and Megan was passed out at the patio table so Eddie and I decided to move her. We got about 5 steps into the Manse when she puked over the (priceless I'm sure) wood panel flooring. I rushed her to the marble tiled bathroom and held her hair while she puked, brought her to the passenger seat of her car, and then cleaned up her mess in the bathroom.
Eddie's girlfriend drove Megan home and the rest of us drove back to the appropriately white trashy parts of Connecticut from whence we came, leaving the Pristine Greenwich cleaned up from White Trash Puke and understanding why they hide those street signs. Gotta keep that GDP for Greenwich up. Can't let Wyoming beat us again.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
The Damn Russian
There was a big work event the other day so we had an afterparty at a local bar. I imbibed. Rose, Brendan, Murphy, Liz, and I went out to the patio as most of the others headed home. I went inside to get another drink and noticed two more of my employees inside so I invited them outside with the rest of the group, then went to the bathroom.
When I came back outside we were short chairs and there was an empty one at a table with a group of guys and girls, so I asked if it was being used, and this blonde girl looks at me for a minute and then all snotty says, "Ummm....yeah."
So I started to walk away when this blonde guy next to her says, "Oh, is that a Tom Collins?" to which I replied that it was in fact a gin and tonic, to which he insisted that my next drink had better be a Tom Collins. I saw my opening. So I sat down in the empty, supposedly being-used chair next to him and began to flirt a bit so I could get my chair. I was just about to say that I needed to get back to my friends when Rose calls over to me. Perfect opening for me to leave and take the chair with me, right? Wrong.
I told her I'd be right over and began to wrap up with the guy (who was Russian) when she called out that I should bring my friend over with me. Here I am behind his back wildly gesticulating, trying to get across the point that I did not want to bring my friend over with me thank you very much, but it was too late. The Russian got up to come hang with my friends. I got my chair but it came with a Russian.
It quickly became apparent that he was very, very drunk. He asked if one of us could give him a ride home. He wanted to know if the campaign was hiring, since I worked in the office right here in town. He spoke Russian, he reminded me, so he could help with the Russian community. I said that my hiring budget was gone already and I hadn't run into any Russians yet so I didn't think we needed him.
Rose said we'd give him a ride home. Laura said actually there are a lot of Russians in the next town over. Rose said there are a lot of Russians in this town. The Russian asked if he told me his age if I would tell him mine, to which I replied that he could tell me his age but I wasn't going to tell him mine, to which he replied that he was 24. He said he dropped out of the state college after a year. He tried to get us to buy him a beer. This guy was a real winner.
His friend came back and said they were leaving and he needed to come now if he wanted a ride. He tried to confirm if we would give his drunk Russian ass a ride home and suddenly we were all going uptown, not downtown. We encouraged him to chug his beer (that we had forced him to buy for himself) so he could make it home with his friend. We succeeded.
When we left, Rose's car had been towed and I ended up driving her two towns over to pick it up. We didn't get home until 1:30 AM, and I had to get up at 7 to escort the candidate's mother around town the next day. But poor Rose got the short end of the stick, having to pay $112 to get her car back and drive across the state before she could get to sleep at her apartment, only to wake up to a ticket on her car for parking 10 inches in front of a neighboring driveway.
It just goes to show you: Rose should not have tried to set me up with the damn Russian.
When I came back outside we were short chairs and there was an empty one at a table with a group of guys and girls, so I asked if it was being used, and this blonde girl looks at me for a minute and then all snotty says, "Ummm....yeah."
So I started to walk away when this blonde guy next to her says, "Oh, is that a Tom Collins?" to which I replied that it was in fact a gin and tonic, to which he insisted that my next drink had better be a Tom Collins. I saw my opening. So I sat down in the empty, supposedly being-used chair next to him and began to flirt a bit so I could get my chair. I was just about to say that I needed to get back to my friends when Rose calls over to me. Perfect opening for me to leave and take the chair with me, right? Wrong.
I told her I'd be right over and began to wrap up with the guy (who was Russian) when she called out that I should bring my friend over with me. Here I am behind his back wildly gesticulating, trying to get across the point that I did not want to bring my friend over with me thank you very much, but it was too late. The Russian got up to come hang with my friends. I got my chair but it came with a Russian.
It quickly became apparent that he was very, very drunk. He asked if one of us could give him a ride home. He wanted to know if the campaign was hiring, since I worked in the office right here in town. He spoke Russian, he reminded me, so he could help with the Russian community. I said that my hiring budget was gone already and I hadn't run into any Russians yet so I didn't think we needed him.
Rose said we'd give him a ride home. Laura said actually there are a lot of Russians in the next town over. Rose said there are a lot of Russians in this town. The Russian asked if he told me his age if I would tell him mine, to which I replied that he could tell me his age but I wasn't going to tell him mine, to which he replied that he was 24. He said he dropped out of the state college after a year. He tried to get us to buy him a beer. This guy was a real winner.
His friend came back and said they were leaving and he needed to come now if he wanted a ride. He tried to confirm if we would give his drunk Russian ass a ride home and suddenly we were all going uptown, not downtown. We encouraged him to chug his beer (that we had forced him to buy for himself) so he could make it home with his friend. We succeeded.
When we left, Rose's car had been towed and I ended up driving her two towns over to pick it up. We didn't get home until 1:30 AM, and I had to get up at 7 to escort the candidate's mother around town the next day. But poor Rose got the short end of the stick, having to pay $112 to get her car back and drive across the state before she could get to sleep at her apartment, only to wake up to a ticket on her car for parking 10 inches in front of a neighboring driveway.
It just goes to show you: Rose should not have tried to set me up with the damn Russian.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Stacy Part II
Kristy, the rightful baby of the family, moved out about 2 years ago. Last Fall, she moved back home amidst much personal turmoil.
In the intervening time, we had (with Kristy's permission) given her old room to my niece, Vicky, who has stayed with us 5 nights a week over the last school year. During this whole time, Stacy's old room sat empty as a shrine to her, full of her cast-off paintings (she's an artist) and cast-off clothing (she's a clothes horse). When Kristy moved home, she got Stacy's old room.
Sort of.
One weekend following Kristy's return, we attempted to move Stacy's stuff out of her old room; we packed it all in boxes and when Stacy came home, asked her to go through it, take what she wanted to back to her own apartment, and the rest we would store in the basement. Notice that at no point did we say we would toss her shit onto the street or give it to the Salvation Army.
Still, as soon as Stacy was faced with having to clean out her old room, she burst into hysterical, gasping sobs at "being thrown out" of her room. How could we do this to her? she cried. My mom, as usual, rushed to comfort her. Kristy's feelings at not having a room in her own home while Stacy had a whole apartment of her own were ignored. My Aunt Mary, who was witness to the whole commotion, commented to me something along the lines of, "Boy, I guess if Stacy gets upset enough she gets what she wants."
Which is Stacy in a nutshell.
So now nine months later, Stacy's shit still isn't moved out of Kristy's room, and every time Stacy comes home to visit, Kristy gets booted so Stacy can have "her room" back. Whenever Kristy makes a comment like, "I'll go put this in my room," Stacy says, "You mean my room." Kristy confided in me over this last weekend how much all this bothers her, and I have to say I understand.
So Stacy came home today for the next few days with her boyfriend. Kristy got bumped to Vicky's room (Kristy's old room), and Vicky got bumped to the living room. Vicky gave Kristy trouble about being pushed out of "her room," which upset Kristy since she of course has been feeling like she doesn't even have a room. So Kristy called my mom and I in to mediate this dispute, at which point Stacy popped in. Here was Kristy upset at not having a place in the house that belonged to her, here was Vicky upset at feeling that she was losing her own space, and here was Stacy not upset in the least, looking on with no clue that she was the cause of all this when you get right down to it.
So I said so.
I said that Vicky had every right to feel upset about having to stay in the living room, that Kristy had every right to feel that she didn't have a place in this house, and that Stacy didn't help matters by refusing to move her crap out of the room and insisting that it was still "her room."
That went over like a lead balloon.
Crying ensued everywhere. Vicky cried louder; Kristy, who had been doing her best to not cry, began bawling. Stacy didn't immediately cry. First she denied, at which point I pointed out that she threw a fit when we asked her initially to remove her shit. She denied again. I replied that even our Aunt Mary had commented on the fit she threw. So then Stacy cried and ran away. My mom cried and ran after Kristy to yell at her to stop crying. She cried that Kristy and I were upsetting Stacy. Who cares if Kristy is legitimately upset? Stacy cannot be upset. Kristy ran out of the house. Mom followed. Vicky started crying because she didn't mean to upset everyone.
I stood in the middle, not crying, wondering which of these four girls to try to calm first. It was a mess and in the end I was crying too. I feel like this is getting long so I'll stop here and pick up again tomorrow.
In the intervening time, we had (with Kristy's permission) given her old room to my niece, Vicky, who has stayed with us 5 nights a week over the last school year. During this whole time, Stacy's old room sat empty as a shrine to her, full of her cast-off paintings (she's an artist) and cast-off clothing (she's a clothes horse). When Kristy moved home, she got Stacy's old room.
Sort of.
One weekend following Kristy's return, we attempted to move Stacy's stuff out of her old room; we packed it all in boxes and when Stacy came home, asked her to go through it, take what she wanted to back to her own apartment, and the rest we would store in the basement. Notice that at no point did we say we would toss her shit onto the street or give it to the Salvation Army.
Still, as soon as Stacy was faced with having to clean out her old room, she burst into hysterical, gasping sobs at "being thrown out" of her room. How could we do this to her? she cried. My mom, as usual, rushed to comfort her. Kristy's feelings at not having a room in her own home while Stacy had a whole apartment of her own were ignored. My Aunt Mary, who was witness to the whole commotion, commented to me something along the lines of, "Boy, I guess if Stacy gets upset enough she gets what she wants."
Which is Stacy in a nutshell.
So now nine months later, Stacy's shit still isn't moved out of Kristy's room, and every time Stacy comes home to visit, Kristy gets booted so Stacy can have "her room" back. Whenever Kristy makes a comment like, "I'll go put this in my room," Stacy says, "You mean my room." Kristy confided in me over this last weekend how much all this bothers her, and I have to say I understand.
So Stacy came home today for the next few days with her boyfriend. Kristy got bumped to Vicky's room (Kristy's old room), and Vicky got bumped to the living room. Vicky gave Kristy trouble about being pushed out of "her room," which upset Kristy since she of course has been feeling like she doesn't even have a room. So Kristy called my mom and I in to mediate this dispute, at which point Stacy popped in. Here was Kristy upset at not having a place in the house that belonged to her, here was Vicky upset at feeling that she was losing her own space, and here was Stacy not upset in the least, looking on with no clue that she was the cause of all this when you get right down to it.
So I said so.
I said that Vicky had every right to feel upset about having to stay in the living room, that Kristy had every right to feel that she didn't have a place in this house, and that Stacy didn't help matters by refusing to move her crap out of the room and insisting that it was still "her room."
That went over like a lead balloon.
Crying ensued everywhere. Vicky cried louder; Kristy, who had been doing her best to not cry, began bawling. Stacy didn't immediately cry. First she denied, at which point I pointed out that she threw a fit when we asked her initially to remove her shit. She denied again. I replied that even our Aunt Mary had commented on the fit she threw. So then Stacy cried and ran away. My mom cried and ran after Kristy to yell at her to stop crying. She cried that Kristy and I were upsetting Stacy. Who cares if Kristy is legitimately upset? Stacy cannot be upset. Kristy ran out of the house. Mom followed. Vicky started crying because she didn't mean to upset everyone.
I stood in the middle, not crying, wondering which of these four girls to try to calm first. It was a mess and in the end I was crying too. I feel like this is getting long so I'll stop here and pick up again tomorrow.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Stacy Part I
My eyes are tired. My brain is tired. I need to be up early tomorrow morning but I just can't rest my mind yet.
I grew up in a perpetual state of hurt, anger, and disbelief at the way my younger sister, Stacy, was treated and the way she acted. You expect there to be a baby in the family, but that baby is usually not the middle child. You expect that in multi child homes, the kids will always think their parents play favorites. You don't expect that what the kids think is so blatantly true as to be commented on by outsiders.
I came to an understanding in recent years, and with that developed a peacefulness about the way things are with Stacy. She is so fragile that she will never be able to deal with the world as most people know it. She is the boy in the bubble, emotionally speaking. She loses it about everything; I am not exaggerating here--about everything. She backed over a rock with her car--hysterical for an hour. She got lost driving--you'd think that someone died.
My parents--in particular my mother--shelter her and help her as much as possible. She (Stacy) is a grown woman--27 years old--with a career as a teacher and yet she cannot do her job without my mother there 2 days a week to help her do it. I am not joking. My mother goes to school with Stacy and acts as her unpaid aid. And the truth is, Stacy couldn't do her job without my mother there like that.
Stacy calls my mother to find out what she should do with every major and minor decision in her life, from where she should apply for jobs to what brand of cereal she should get. It would be a slight exaggeration to say she needs my mother to tell her to wipe her ass after she shits. A slight one.
Sorry-began to go off on a rant there. My point is that it is a vicious circle. My parents favor Stacy because she needs the extra attention and protection. She needs the extra attention and protection from the real world because she has always been babied. It's a chicken and the egg situation and now it just is what it is. I've been okay with that for a long time but this last week I've gotten mad. Mad mostly at Stacy and a bit at my mother.
I'm going for a walk to cool off a bit. I'll finish in a bit.
I grew up in a perpetual state of hurt, anger, and disbelief at the way my younger sister, Stacy, was treated and the way she acted. You expect there to be a baby in the family, but that baby is usually not the middle child. You expect that in multi child homes, the kids will always think their parents play favorites. You don't expect that what the kids think is so blatantly true as to be commented on by outsiders.
I came to an understanding in recent years, and with that developed a peacefulness about the way things are with Stacy. She is so fragile that she will never be able to deal with the world as most people know it. She is the boy in the bubble, emotionally speaking. She loses it about everything; I am not exaggerating here--about everything. She backed over a rock with her car--hysterical for an hour. She got lost driving--you'd think that someone died.
My parents--in particular my mother--shelter her and help her as much as possible. She (Stacy) is a grown woman--27 years old--with a career as a teacher and yet she cannot do her job without my mother there 2 days a week to help her do it. I am not joking. My mother goes to school with Stacy and acts as her unpaid aid. And the truth is, Stacy couldn't do her job without my mother there like that.
Stacy calls my mother to find out what she should do with every major and minor decision in her life, from where she should apply for jobs to what brand of cereal she should get. It would be a slight exaggeration to say she needs my mother to tell her to wipe her ass after she shits. A slight one.
Sorry-began to go off on a rant there. My point is that it is a vicious circle. My parents favor Stacy because she needs the extra attention and protection. She needs the extra attention and protection from the real world because she has always been babied. It's a chicken and the egg situation and now it just is what it is. I've been okay with that for a long time but this last week I've gotten mad. Mad mostly at Stacy and a bit at my mother.
I'm going for a walk to cool off a bit. I'll finish in a bit.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Does Size Matter?
Most of the time--no. Sometimes--yes.
I'm not Ms. Been Around a Million and One Times but I've been with enough men to have developed an answer to this question based on experience. There is a whole range of size and shape when it comes to men; almost all fall somewhere in the, say, 5 to 8 inch range with average . . . girth. So most of the time, size does not matter. Give or take a couple of inches, it all feels about the same when you get right down to it. It matters much more what you do with what you have.
But there are extremes. I have come across two examples of the teeny, tiny extreme. In the first case, I am embarrassed now at the way I acted then. I was only 18 and when I realized that a guy's schlong could be the size of my pinkie (I'm not exaggerating here) when standing at attention. I was so shocked that I promptly removed my hand from his pants and ended our little session.
The second time, I knew ahead of time that what was going to be revealed to me would be on the small side. He actually told me over dinner. Yeah, and I still slept with him. Why? He was my first after the Big X, and I was determined to get the obstacle of sleeping with someone new out of the way. When we got back to the hotel (we were both on a vacation in Seattle), I was shocked again at the insignificance of his one-eyed trouser snake but was still determined to go through with things.
Here is what I discovered: 1. There is such a thing as so small you can't even feel it. 2. A guy can make up for this fact. Without going into complete x-rated description, let's just say that this guy gave me beard burn on my vajayjay that was well worth getting. Best oral I had ever had. He most definitely compensated. Lesson: Yes, there is such a thing as too small but give the guy a chance. It might still be worth it.
What about the other end of the scale? Large to the extreme? Yup, had that. It's quite something. A guy whose blue-veined custard-chucker is so large that it's like losing your virginity all over again. Remember that? It takes a bit of work to make things fit right. It's almost painful at first. But then once they do fit right, it's still just eye-popping with every thrust. I can't describe the feeling. Just . . . wow. You can still feel it hours later. (Okay, days.)
Girls, if you ever have the chance, take it.
Having said that, the average Captain Slappy, giggle stick, guided muscle, Hardy Boy, heat seeking missle, inseminator, Jack the Ripper, knee knocker, meat popsicle, notary public, one-eyed wonder weasel, purple-headed warrior, Rumple Foreskin, tallywhacker, tonsil tickler, trouser lizard, Vlad the Impaler, W.A.D. (which I will not spell out the meaning of here), warrior of love (and so many more that really are too dirty to print here)--really is just super and I'd take it any day.
Size doesn't matter . . . mostly.
I'm not Ms. Been Around a Million and One Times but I've been with enough men to have developed an answer to this question based on experience. There is a whole range of size and shape when it comes to men; almost all fall somewhere in the, say, 5 to 8 inch range with average . . . girth. So most of the time, size does not matter. Give or take a couple of inches, it all feels about the same when you get right down to it. It matters much more what you do with what you have.
But there are extremes. I have come across two examples of the teeny, tiny extreme. In the first case, I am embarrassed now at the way I acted then. I was only 18 and when I realized that a guy's schlong could be the size of my pinkie (I'm not exaggerating here) when standing at attention. I was so shocked that I promptly removed my hand from his pants and ended our little session.
The second time, I knew ahead of time that what was going to be revealed to me would be on the small side. He actually told me over dinner. Yeah, and I still slept with him. Why? He was my first after the Big X, and I was determined to get the obstacle of sleeping with someone new out of the way. When we got back to the hotel (we were both on a vacation in Seattle), I was shocked again at the insignificance of his one-eyed trouser snake but was still determined to go through with things.
Here is what I discovered: 1. There is such a thing as so small you can't even feel it. 2. A guy can make up for this fact. Without going into complete x-rated description, let's just say that this guy gave me beard burn on my vajayjay that was well worth getting. Best oral I had ever had. He most definitely compensated. Lesson: Yes, there is such a thing as too small but give the guy a chance. It might still be worth it.
What about the other end of the scale? Large to the extreme? Yup, had that. It's quite something. A guy whose blue-veined custard-chucker is so large that it's like losing your virginity all over again. Remember that? It takes a bit of work to make things fit right. It's almost painful at first. But then once they do fit right, it's still just eye-popping with every thrust. I can't describe the feeling. Just . . . wow. You can still feel it hours later. (Okay, days.)
Girls, if you ever have the chance, take it.
Having said that, the average Captain Slappy, giggle stick, guided muscle, Hardy Boy, heat seeking missle, inseminator, Jack the Ripper, knee knocker, meat popsicle, notary public, one-eyed wonder weasel, purple-headed warrior, Rumple Foreskin, tallywhacker, tonsil tickler, trouser lizard, Vlad the Impaler, W.A.D. (which I will not spell out the meaning of here), warrior of love (and so many more that really are too dirty to print here)--really is just super and I'd take it any day.
Size doesn't matter . . . mostly.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
I'm a Bottler
I'm a bottler. I bottle things up. I try to let most things roll off my back but the things that don't, I bottle up. Everything's cool with me. Want to yell and scream at me for something that I have nothing to do with? That's okay. No problem. I know you didn't mean it. The online payroll system crashes at work and I'm not going to be able to pay the whole damn campaign on time now? Oh well, out of my control. I can deal with everyone getting mad. Want to make plans with me and then just never call and never apologize for not following through? It's okay, really. I know we are both busy.
Want to give my sister a strand of gorgeous, priceless pearls for her birthday when I get a check for $25, Grandmonster? Want to casually mention that you gave me a strand years ago that belonged to my great-grandmother that you don't think is worth much of anything if it's even real? Want to talk about how you had Stacy's restrung (but didn't change the clasp since that shows the name of the famous designer who made them) and bought her a gorgeous set of earrings to match as well? Have her put it on and see how it looks in front of Kristy (who never received any pearls, real or fake) and me? Want us to ooh and ah, even? It's okay, really. I understand. I don't take it personally.
Then I'm at a stupid summer planning committee meeting for school. There is a contentious issue which has everyone's nerves a bit raw to begin with. I feel like I'm being personally called out by Ryan, and after hearing what he is saying, end up agreeing with him but I just don't feel like he's listening to what I'm saying. Even though I'm agreeing with him over and over, he won't stop arguing his point. Finally I get mad.
Finally I get mad. At Ryan, at a yelling coworker, at the payroll administration company, at the guy that pushed payroll off onto me even though I already do two--count them TWO-- full-time jobs for the campaign, at the friend who blew me off, at the Grandmonster, at Stacy for being everyone's favorite, at my mom for spending over half the week with Stacy every week (during the only time I have off to actually be around her no less), at my asshole brother and sister-in-law for generally making everyone's lives hell, at my entire fucking family for guilting me into living home for six more months . . . at so much more . . .
But Ryan is the one in front of me. And Ryan is the one I lose it on. I started screaming at him and clapping my hands like a mad woman, and then when he yells back I nearly cried. It was all I could do for the remaining excruciating half hour of the meeting to remain seated at the table and not let a tear slip down my cheek. Blink, blink, open my eyes wide so they evaporate. Breathe deep. Swallow.
Now I'm home crying and letting the remaining contents of the bottle pour out. Gotta empty it out nice and good so that I have someplace to store all this shit for the next month or so.
I'm a bottler.
Want to give my sister a strand of gorgeous, priceless pearls for her birthday when I get a check for $25, Grandmonster? Want to casually mention that you gave me a strand years ago that belonged to my great-grandmother that you don't think is worth much of anything if it's even real? Want to talk about how you had Stacy's restrung (but didn't change the clasp since that shows the name of the famous designer who made them) and bought her a gorgeous set of earrings to match as well? Have her put it on and see how it looks in front of Kristy (who never received any pearls, real or fake) and me? Want us to ooh and ah, even? It's okay, really. I understand. I don't take it personally.
Then I'm at a stupid summer planning committee meeting for school. There is a contentious issue which has everyone's nerves a bit raw to begin with. I feel like I'm being personally called out by Ryan, and after hearing what he is saying, end up agreeing with him but I just don't feel like he's listening to what I'm saying. Even though I'm agreeing with him over and over, he won't stop arguing his point. Finally I get mad.
Finally I get mad. At Ryan, at a yelling coworker, at the payroll administration company, at the guy that pushed payroll off onto me even though I already do two--count them TWO-- full-time jobs for the campaign, at the friend who blew me off, at the Grandmonster, at Stacy for being everyone's favorite, at my mom for spending over half the week with Stacy every week (during the only time I have off to actually be around her no less), at my asshole brother and sister-in-law for generally making everyone's lives hell, at my entire fucking family for guilting me into living home for six more months . . . at so much more . . .
But Ryan is the one in front of me. And Ryan is the one I lose it on. I started screaming at him and clapping my hands like a mad woman, and then when he yells back I nearly cried. It was all I could do for the remaining excruciating half hour of the meeting to remain seated at the table and not let a tear slip down my cheek. Blink, blink, open my eyes wide so they evaporate. Breathe deep. Swallow.
Now I'm home crying and letting the remaining contents of the bottle pour out. Gotta empty it out nice and good so that I have someplace to store all this shit for the next month or so.
I'm a bottler.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Better Off Dead
So I'm realizing that when at the start of my last post I said "2 good things" that you all might not have realized that I meant it as in 2 good things to write about, not 2 good things about my life. Because neither are good. Clearly, the root canal was not good.
The other good thing to write about that is not in reality good? The reason I'm going to hell? I know someone that I think would be better off dead. I'm not exaggerating; I'm not being melodramatic. This man spreads hatred like a virus through everyone he knows. He would be better off dead and the rest of the world would be better off if he were dead.
Mostly, the rest of the world is my concern. He has partially ruined my life (no, it's not the Big X; even though I still give him caps, he didn't have the power to ruin my life). He has ruined completely one other person's life, and has partially ruined at least three other people's lives besides my own.
How do you completely ruin someone's life? You must be a black hole for all good and rational thought. You must radiate messiness, fight, darkness. You must suck someone into the complete and utter ruin you have made of your very own life and act like quicksand, or like tar, and force them to stay there, to become so entrenched in your own evil life that they give up any good part of their soul and ultimately decide to become just like you. Yes, this person whose life was ruined by him had some level of choice in the matter. It can't be entirely contributed to him that this other person's life was ruined; eventually they stopped fighting their way out of the black hole.
The others? The ones like me? Who have been partially ruined? We fight and sometimes break free of the horrid mess; I did. But then I looked back and saw these others who maybe didn't have the fight in them to get away, these others who still have a chance at breaking free, of not having a completely ruined life. I want to help them. They each are not breaking free for their own reasons.
Person #1: Is too young to be able to break free. Cannot even admit how horrible this man is just yet. May, by the time this person is ready to see it, be too late. May have their life already ruined beyond repair.
Person #2: Loves him too much. Why? I don't fucking know, that's for sure. But can't bring themself to shut the door on him, and as long as it's open, he will creep in like carbon monoxide in the night while you sleep and smother the life out of you.
Person #3: Recognizes him for what he is; hates him so much for it that the hate continues to ruin their life. Won't let go, won't shut that door, because the hate is too much. This person does not understand how, after all that I've been put through, I have let go of the hate. (I was put through worse, through the most of anyone who knows him.) The door can't be closed until the hate is let go.
Because I love these three people very much and want to save them, I have opened the door again and am forced to deal with him. But even if we all make it out alive, we will be permanently damaged. If we wore our emotional damage like physical, #2 and #3 would have repulsive gashes swerving across their faces. #1? The damage is not complete yet. #1 would still be oozing puss and blood.
Me? I have a scar. It's big. I am able to hide it well though.
There is no one he touches that makes it away without at least a bruise. He should die. This is evil of me to think, I know. I should probably go to hell.
But everyone would be better off if he would just die.
The other good thing to write about that is not in reality good? The reason I'm going to hell? I know someone that I think would be better off dead. I'm not exaggerating; I'm not being melodramatic. This man spreads hatred like a virus through everyone he knows. He would be better off dead and the rest of the world would be better off if he were dead.
Mostly, the rest of the world is my concern. He has partially ruined my life (no, it's not the Big X; even though I still give him caps, he didn't have the power to ruin my life). He has ruined completely one other person's life, and has partially ruined at least three other people's lives besides my own.
How do you completely ruin someone's life? You must be a black hole for all good and rational thought. You must radiate messiness, fight, darkness. You must suck someone into the complete and utter ruin you have made of your very own life and act like quicksand, or like tar, and force them to stay there, to become so entrenched in your own evil life that they give up any good part of their soul and ultimately decide to become just like you. Yes, this person whose life was ruined by him had some level of choice in the matter. It can't be entirely contributed to him that this other person's life was ruined; eventually they stopped fighting their way out of the black hole.
The others? The ones like me? Who have been partially ruined? We fight and sometimes break free of the horrid mess; I did. But then I looked back and saw these others who maybe didn't have the fight in them to get away, these others who still have a chance at breaking free, of not having a completely ruined life. I want to help them. They each are not breaking free for their own reasons.
Person #1: Is too young to be able to break free. Cannot even admit how horrible this man is just yet. May, by the time this person is ready to see it, be too late. May have their life already ruined beyond repair.
Person #2: Loves him too much. Why? I don't fucking know, that's for sure. But can't bring themself to shut the door on him, and as long as it's open, he will creep in like carbon monoxide in the night while you sleep and smother the life out of you.
Person #3: Recognizes him for what he is; hates him so much for it that the hate continues to ruin their life. Won't let go, won't shut that door, because the hate is too much. This person does not understand how, after all that I've been put through, I have let go of the hate. (I was put through worse, through the most of anyone who knows him.) The door can't be closed until the hate is let go.
Because I love these three people very much and want to save them, I have opened the door again and am forced to deal with him. But even if we all make it out alive, we will be permanently damaged. If we wore our emotional damage like physical, #2 and #3 would have repulsive gashes swerving across their faces. #1? The damage is not complete yet. #1 would still be oozing puss and blood.
Me? I have a scar. It's big. I am able to hide it well though.
There is no one he touches that makes it away without at least a bruise. He should die. This is evil of me to think, I know. I should probably go to hell.
But everyone would be better off if he would just die.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Share My Root Canal Hell
I want to write about something else right now but I need to come back to it because there are 2 good things I want to tell you about right now. So I'll come back to why I'm going to hell.
So I went to the dentist yesterday about my sore tooth. A little history about my life with the dentist: 1. I am part British--the part that is attached to my teeth. As a child I had multiple cavities and even had to have teeth removed. I have never liked the dentist. I know no one did but I had special reasons. One emotionally abused me by telling me I salivated more than any other patient he had ever had. (Later I realized this could be turned into an asset with my especially close male friends.)
Also as I've previously mentioned, novacaine doesn't work properly on me. Only, since my whole life it never has, I always thought that was just the way it was . . . Imagine my joy at finding out (in my mid-twenties) that some people just don't react to lydocaine? The dentist said we'd do carbocaine, which is stronger.
Nope. Doesn't work either. Sometimes it works a little. Sometimes it dulls things. I told the dentist it didn't work the first time so he stopped, gave me another excruciating shot with the ginormously long and SCARY-LOOKING needle. Still didn't work. He sighed, stopped again. Shot again. Still didn't work.
He asked again if it was working. I made an affirmative grunting noise. It was a lie. At this point, I decided that despite the pain of actual drilling, if I could just shut up about the pain again like I had all my life I could be out of the damn chair much sooner and not be loaded up with novacaine that wasn't even working. Hence, I most often feel everything when the dentist does a procedure.
A root canal? What does that feel like? Well, first there's the drilling. The very beginning of drilling doesn't bother much at all. Once he gets past the enamel is when it starts to really hurt. Just look up at the ceiling. Trace the crevices in the tiles with your eyes. DO NOT tense your hands on the arms of the chair or he'll know it hurts, stop, and bring out the needle again, as if that will help. Once he pops off enough of the tooth to reach the raw, exposed nerve, the real fun begins.
He pulls out this itsy bitsy file/screw crossbreed. This is to be inserted into the prong parts of your tooth, where the nerves live. He shoves it into the tangle of pulpy nerve, not realizing, of course, that you are feeling the whole horrid thing. He pushes it in good and deep and then proceeds to rip the nerves right out of the roots. He files and screws, screws and files. The pain is nearly excruciating. Blink a lot to keep tears from forming. Trace the crevices in the ceiling again.
He stops, looks into the tooth with his little mirror. Nope, missed some nerve. Gotta really screw that file in good and tight this time!
Finally, he is done with ripping nerves out; next he finds pins that are the right length to fill the hollow roots and keep the tooth stable. He tries out a few different sizes, putting them into the now nerve-free root. Yay, you might think. No more pain! Well, you would be wrong. He inserts the pins into the root and they go down deep enough to connect with the nerves that are running through your jaw. Take that, jaw nerves! How do you like getting stabbed with a little needle over and over? Not so much, huh?
So when it was done, I came home and decided to spend the rest of the day high on vicodin. This is why I actually began this post several days ago and actually only got as far as the ellipses; when I first started this post I ended up passing out in a drug-induced stupor. I had to come back and finish the rest when the trauma had passed enough to recount the incident.
So I went to the dentist yesterday about my sore tooth. A little history about my life with the dentist: 1. I am part British--the part that is attached to my teeth. As a child I had multiple cavities and even had to have teeth removed. I have never liked the dentist. I know no one did but I had special reasons. One emotionally abused me by telling me I salivated more than any other patient he had ever had. (Later I realized this could be turned into an asset with my especially close male friends.)
Also as I've previously mentioned, novacaine doesn't work properly on me. Only, since my whole life it never has, I always thought that was just the way it was . . . Imagine my joy at finding out (in my mid-twenties) that some people just don't react to lydocaine? The dentist said we'd do carbocaine, which is stronger.
Nope. Doesn't work either. Sometimes it works a little. Sometimes it dulls things. I told the dentist it didn't work the first time so he stopped, gave me another excruciating shot with the ginormously long and SCARY-LOOKING needle. Still didn't work. He sighed, stopped again. Shot again. Still didn't work.
He asked again if it was working. I made an affirmative grunting noise. It was a lie. At this point, I decided that despite the pain of actual drilling, if I could just shut up about the pain again like I had all my life I could be out of the damn chair much sooner and not be loaded up with novacaine that wasn't even working. Hence, I most often feel everything when the dentist does a procedure.
A root canal? What does that feel like? Well, first there's the drilling. The very beginning of drilling doesn't bother much at all. Once he gets past the enamel is when it starts to really hurt. Just look up at the ceiling. Trace the crevices in the tiles with your eyes. DO NOT tense your hands on the arms of the chair or he'll know it hurts, stop, and bring out the needle again, as if that will help. Once he pops off enough of the tooth to reach the raw, exposed nerve, the real fun begins.
He pulls out this itsy bitsy file/screw crossbreed. This is to be inserted into the prong parts of your tooth, where the nerves live. He shoves it into the tangle of pulpy nerve, not realizing, of course, that you are feeling the whole horrid thing. He pushes it in good and deep and then proceeds to rip the nerves right out of the roots. He files and screws, screws and files. The pain is nearly excruciating. Blink a lot to keep tears from forming. Trace the crevices in the ceiling again.
He stops, looks into the tooth with his little mirror. Nope, missed some nerve. Gotta really screw that file in good and tight this time!
Finally, he is done with ripping nerves out; next he finds pins that are the right length to fill the hollow roots and keep the tooth stable. He tries out a few different sizes, putting them into the now nerve-free root. Yay, you might think. No more pain! Well, you would be wrong. He inserts the pins into the root and they go down deep enough to connect with the nerves that are running through your jaw. Take that, jaw nerves! How do you like getting stabbed with a little needle over and over? Not so much, huh?
So when it was done, I came home and decided to spend the rest of the day high on vicodin. This is why I actually began this post several days ago and actually only got as far as the ellipses; when I first started this post I ended up passing out in a drug-induced stupor. I had to come back and finish the rest when the trauma had passed enough to recount the incident.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
I Heart Henry Lee
I called the dentist today. I'm going to see him tomorrow. He wanted to see me at 7:30 tonight but I just couldn't. I had to attend a work event.
Highlight of the day: I got to meet Dr. Henry Lee, famed forensic scientist formerly of the O.J. trial, currently of the CourtTV show, "From the Files of Dr. Henry Lee.". No one seems as thrilled with that as I am. Don't know why. It was better than meeting Kiki and Ted Kennedy Jr. to me, though they were nice too. I especially liked Ted III, who is about 3 1/2 feet tall right now. Presidential material, that one. I'm telling you.
As much as I like my job, I'm actually looking forward to this root canal so I can have some forced time off from work (because given the choice I'd work 12-16 hours a day--and have been--instead of go home early). If there is something more to be done for the campaign I want to stay and get it done. Trouble is, it never ends and I never catch up.
Truth? I've actually turned down the opportunity for sex to spend more time working lately.
Even though I'm loving work I'm beginning to realize my priorities might have become just ever so slightly out of whack lately.
Highlight of the day: I got to meet Dr. Henry Lee, famed forensic scientist formerly of the O.J. trial, currently of the CourtTV show, "From the Files of Dr. Henry Lee.". No one seems as thrilled with that as I am. Don't know why. It was better than meeting Kiki and Ted Kennedy Jr. to me, though they were nice too. I especially liked Ted III, who is about 3 1/2 feet tall right now. Presidential material, that one. I'm telling you.
As much as I like my job, I'm actually looking forward to this root canal so I can have some forced time off from work (because given the choice I'd work 12-16 hours a day--and have been--instead of go home early). If there is something more to be done for the campaign I want to stay and get it done. Trouble is, it never ends and I never catch up.
Truth? I've actually turned down the opportunity for sex to spend more time working lately.
Even though I'm loving work I'm beginning to realize my priorities might have become just ever so slightly out of whack lately.
Late Night Stream of Thought
Getting a touch of insomnia again. Probably from working long hours.
I finally caught up on my laundry. I actually have enough clean clothes to last over a week for once. I also cleaned out my car. My interns were shocked when I offered them a ride to the main office today. "Where can we sit?" Brendan asked. "Your car is a mess!"
"Ah ha," I replied. "But I cleaned it yesterday!" It actually holds 5 people again. Now poor Professor Bob just needs a good wash and vaccuum. The birds and summer bugs have not been kind to him. (Though I suspect the bugs would feel he hasn't been kind to them either.)
Fucking bug guts are like glue when they dry, too.
Oh, and I think I might have to get a root canal or something. My dentist filled a cavity that I hadn't even noticed but apparently was kind of deep, so he told me he packed it with medicine or something, and that might fix it but if it began to get sensitive at all to call him right away and he'd do a root canal. Do not wait until you are crying from the pain like you did last time, he told me.
It's been bothering me off and on for weeks. Part of my insomnia tonight is directly related to the tooth ache. Why do I wait like this? Prayer. I pray and pray that it will be better tomorrow, and sometimes it is, until it gets to the point where I'm popping codeine and rubbing whiskey on my gums all weekend, then forcing the dentist to come in on a Sunday afternoon because I just can't take it anymore.
Novacaine does not work on me, you see. There are two kinds--Cabocaine and Lanocaine. The dentist uses the stronger one on me now but that still doesn't work. I feel everything. Hence, I avoid him at all costs. I have to find one of those dentists that gives you pills or laughing gas for everything.
I'll put that on my list after getting my tonsils ripped out.
I finally caught up on my laundry. I actually have enough clean clothes to last over a week for once. I also cleaned out my car. My interns were shocked when I offered them a ride to the main office today. "Where can we sit?" Brendan asked. "Your car is a mess!"
"Ah ha," I replied. "But I cleaned it yesterday!" It actually holds 5 people again. Now poor Professor Bob just needs a good wash and vaccuum. The birds and summer bugs have not been kind to him. (Though I suspect the bugs would feel he hasn't been kind to them either.)
Fucking bug guts are like glue when they dry, too.
Oh, and I think I might have to get a root canal or something. My dentist filled a cavity that I hadn't even noticed but apparently was kind of deep, so he told me he packed it with medicine or something, and that might fix it but if it began to get sensitive at all to call him right away and he'd do a root canal. Do not wait until you are crying from the pain like you did last time, he told me.
It's been bothering me off and on for weeks. Part of my insomnia tonight is directly related to the tooth ache. Why do I wait like this? Prayer. I pray and pray that it will be better tomorrow, and sometimes it is, until it gets to the point where I'm popping codeine and rubbing whiskey on my gums all weekend, then forcing the dentist to come in on a Sunday afternoon because I just can't take it anymore.
Novacaine does not work on me, you see. There are two kinds--Cabocaine and Lanocaine. The dentist uses the stronger one on me now but that still doesn't work. I feel everything. Hence, I avoid him at all costs. I have to find one of those dentists that gives you pills or laughing gas for everything.
I'll put that on my list after getting my tonsils ripped out.
Monday, June 12, 2006
I am my Own Woman
I like having six pillows on my bed and having no one to blame but myself if the bed's not made. Of course, I always make it so there's no one to get mad at about it either.
I like that I adopted a kitten who was abandoned by its mother immediately after birth and I didn't have to ask anyone if it was okay. Not that I want to be the lady with ten cats but it's good to know that I can have as many cats or dogs or parakeets as I desire.
I don't own any parakeets but I remember owning one when I was little. He would bathe in my cupped hands under the running water from the sink. He would sit on my shoulder or sometimes perch on my finger. I suppose it wouldn't be a good idea to own a parakeet any more, now that I have 2 cats.
I like that I can watch anything I want to on TV. I can watch Law & Order in its many incarnations, Desparate Housewives, Gray's Anatamy, etc., and I have to justify my choices to no one. I do not have to bargain. 1 hour of DH for 1 hour of Discovery Channel.
I like that when I rent a movie, I rent whatever the hell I desire. No trade-offs--your turn to choose an action-adventure so that next time I can choose a romantic comedy. And the truth is, I sometimes choose an action-adventure all on my own, but it is my choice.
I like that every single evening is free for me to use as I please. Sometimes I work late. Okay, a lot of times I work late. But sometimes I go to the bar, sometimes I go to a friend's, sometimes I might have sex with FWB. Sometimes I might have a girls' night out. Often I stay home all by myself and put my pajamas on; have a glass of wine; read a book until I pass out.
I like that every choice I make is mine alone. It's been over a year but the whole owning my life thing hasn't worn off yet. I answer to no one but myself. I am my own woman.
I like that I adopted a kitten who was abandoned by its mother immediately after birth and I didn't have to ask anyone if it was okay. Not that I want to be the lady with ten cats but it's good to know that I can have as many cats or dogs or parakeets as I desire.
I don't own any parakeets but I remember owning one when I was little. He would bathe in my cupped hands under the running water from the sink. He would sit on my shoulder or sometimes perch on my finger. I suppose it wouldn't be a good idea to own a parakeet any more, now that I have 2 cats.
I like that I can watch anything I want to on TV. I can watch Law & Order in its many incarnations, Desparate Housewives, Gray's Anatamy, etc., and I have to justify my choices to no one. I do not have to bargain. 1 hour of DH for 1 hour of Discovery Channel.
I like that when I rent a movie, I rent whatever the hell I desire. No trade-offs--your turn to choose an action-adventure so that next time I can choose a romantic comedy. And the truth is, I sometimes choose an action-adventure all on my own, but it is my choice.
I like that every single evening is free for me to use as I please. Sometimes I work late. Okay, a lot of times I work late. But sometimes I go to the bar, sometimes I go to a friend's, sometimes I might have sex with FWB. Sometimes I might have a girls' night out. Often I stay home all by myself and put my pajamas on; have a glass of wine; read a book until I pass out.
I like that every choice I make is mine alone. It's been over a year but the whole owning my life thing hasn't worn off yet. I answer to no one but myself. I am my own woman.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Turn-ons: Bald and Homophobic
Last weekend I house/dog sat for Jenn. To thank me, she had me over for dinner tonight and at one point said we needed to go out onto the porch so we could talk about something that her boyfriend, Justin, couldn't overhear. So out we went.
Here's what it was about: Justin nearly invited a friend of his over for a surprise set-up. I would have frigging killed them. And then Jenn says, but Justin really wants to set you up. And she had a great sell to go with this guy. Are you ready??
. . .
He's bald and slightly homophobic.
That is what she had to say about this guy they want to hook me up with. Now I've got nothing against bald guys. If they are completely bald, I think it's sexy, actually. But if you are giving just a couple of tidbits to me about someone you actually want me to be interested in, bald and homophobic aren't what I personally would have chosen. Good sense of humor? Really nice? Great eyes? There's got to be something better than bald/homophobic.
Now here's the worst part of this whole thing. Are you ready this time??
. . .
I'm actually half considering it. What the hell does that say about me?
Here's what it was about: Justin nearly invited a friend of his over for a surprise set-up. I would have frigging killed them. And then Jenn says, but Justin really wants to set you up. And she had a great sell to go with this guy. Are you ready??
. . .
He's bald and slightly homophobic.
That is what she had to say about this guy they want to hook me up with. Now I've got nothing against bald guys. If they are completely bald, I think it's sexy, actually. But if you are giving just a couple of tidbits to me about someone you actually want me to be interested in, bald and homophobic aren't what I personally would have chosen. Good sense of humor? Really nice? Great eyes? There's got to be something better than bald/homophobic.
Now here's the worst part of this whole thing. Are you ready this time??
. . .
I'm actually half considering it. What the hell does that say about me?
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Three Armed Baby
So I check what brings people to my blog now and then. I can see if they googled something that sent them here, etc. I have a list of keywords that I get hits from because it amuses me. But this is the most amusing one so far and it just keeps coming up lately so I just must share. It started about a week ago and I must have seen over a dozen hits just by people googling this phrase:
Three armed baby.
It sends them to my old hot toddie post (which also gets hits from a ton of people googling hot toddie, by the way). I mean, today I've already gotten 2 hits from people searching for three-armed baby information. This all intrigues and amuses me.
P.S. Now the three armed baby fans will be directed to this post as well. I'll have a whole fan club of three armed baby supporters.
Three armed baby.
It sends them to my old hot toddie post (which also gets hits from a ton of people googling hot toddie, by the way). I mean, today I've already gotten 2 hits from people searching for three-armed baby information. This all intrigues and amuses me.
P.S. Now the three armed baby fans will be directed to this post as well. I'll have a whole fan club of three armed baby supporters.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Crushin on someone
I was wearing my new khaki pants today. I've had them for 2 weeks. I was walking a parade for Memorial Day and at the end I was told that my pants had ripped right along the fly, leaving a huge gaping hole exposing my panties. Great. How many people had looked at my panties as I was trying to hand out flyers?
Oh well. At least I was wearing nice panties.
Yay! Anon is back! I hope he'll email me again.
This guy came into the office to volunteer last Friday and he was hot and funny and very friendly. He leaned in really close to me to see something I was pulling up on my computer screen and I got the butterflies. I haven't gotten the butterflies from a complete stranger in a long time. He's younger than me but then I haven't been with a guy who wasn't younger than me in over a year. I got his email address so I could send him a link to a video clip and I emailed him Friday night.
I haven't gotten a response yet and I'm disappointed. I frigging hate this. Why do I have to want to start dating again all of a sudden? Why do I have to have a crush? I haven't had a crush in forever and I don't like it. Not one bit.
Oh well. At least I was wearing nice panties.
Yay! Anon is back! I hope he'll email me again.
This guy came into the office to volunteer last Friday and he was hot and funny and very friendly. He leaned in really close to me to see something I was pulling up on my computer screen and I got the butterflies. I haven't gotten the butterflies from a complete stranger in a long time. He's younger than me but then I haven't been with a guy who wasn't younger than me in over a year. I got his email address so I could send him a link to a video clip and I emailed him Friday night.
I haven't gotten a response yet and I'm disappointed. I frigging hate this. Why do I have to want to start dating again all of a sudden? Why do I have to have a crush? I haven't had a crush in forever and I don't like it. Not one bit.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Catching up: Guy Got Fired, Tantric Sex, Oxygen Mask
Been working like 14 hour days all the time lately, but been enjoying it. Some catching up to do here though.
I got my coworker fired, which I have mixed feelings about. He was really a nice guy (when he wasn't yelling at me). He was really earnest in doing his job (when he wasn't yelling at our volunteers that he didn't have time for them). He really wanted to get our organization to succeed (when he wasn't undermining it by spouting off to the public about things counterproductive to our message). See technically I was his boss and I was brought into this part of the organization from the area I had been in with the express purpose of trying to reign him in and keep him on message and on track. I was his last chance to keep the job, you could say, but he didn't see it that way and every time I tried to correct him or move him away from making another mistake, he yelled at me. I mean, actually raised his voice to the point of yelling, not just spoke meanly. Wednesday when he did it in front of our subordinate was the last straw.
Last weekend I learned all about tantric sex. I had of course heard of it before but didn't know the details. I mean, did you know the guy doesn't come and he's fine with this? It also makes things go on for hours. Not trying to brag here, but I'm just saying-four. I mean, that is a hell of a workout. Next day, my whole body was sore in that good, you've-been-working-out-really-hard-at-the-gym way.
The doctor wants me to go back for another sleep study with this oxygen mask on my face and I refuse to call and schedule it. If that's successful, I'll have to wear the damn thing for the rest of my life. Pretty sexy, a girl in bed with a mask on, huh? Plus, I've heard insurance doesn't cover the whole cost and I don't have the cash to pay for that crap. AND I know my apnea is caused by my ginormous tonsils and if the doc would just remove them everything would be fine again. Seriously, my tonsils are practically touching when I'm NOT sick with a sore throat. I've gotta tell my doctor to just rip those fuckers out because I'm sick of: waking up 273 times a night due to apnea; choking on my food because it gets stuck on my tonsils; fearing that I will suffocate every time I get a throat infection; and one more thing that giant tonsils handicaps that I won't state here because I've already talked about sex enough in this post.
I'm taking it easy this weekend so I think I'll be posting a few more times. Off to the vineyards for some wine tasting now though.
I got my coworker fired, which I have mixed feelings about. He was really a nice guy (when he wasn't yelling at me). He was really earnest in doing his job (when he wasn't yelling at our volunteers that he didn't have time for them). He really wanted to get our organization to succeed (when he wasn't undermining it by spouting off to the public about things counterproductive to our message). See technically I was his boss and I was brought into this part of the organization from the area I had been in with the express purpose of trying to reign him in and keep him on message and on track. I was his last chance to keep the job, you could say, but he didn't see it that way and every time I tried to correct him or move him away from making another mistake, he yelled at me. I mean, actually raised his voice to the point of yelling, not just spoke meanly. Wednesday when he did it in front of our subordinate was the last straw.
Last weekend I learned all about tantric sex. I had of course heard of it before but didn't know the details. I mean, did you know the guy doesn't come and he's fine with this? It also makes things go on for hours. Not trying to brag here, but I'm just saying-four. I mean, that is a hell of a workout. Next day, my whole body was sore in that good, you've-been-working-out-really-hard-at-the-gym way.
The doctor wants me to go back for another sleep study with this oxygen mask on my face and I refuse to call and schedule it. If that's successful, I'll have to wear the damn thing for the rest of my life. Pretty sexy, a girl in bed with a mask on, huh? Plus, I've heard insurance doesn't cover the whole cost and I don't have the cash to pay for that crap. AND I know my apnea is caused by my ginormous tonsils and if the doc would just remove them everything would be fine again. Seriously, my tonsils are practically touching when I'm NOT sick with a sore throat. I've gotta tell my doctor to just rip those fuckers out because I'm sick of: waking up 273 times a night due to apnea; choking on my food because it gets stuck on my tonsils; fearing that I will suffocate every time I get a throat infection; and one more thing that giant tonsils handicaps that I won't state here because I've already talked about sex enough in this post.
I'm taking it easy this weekend so I think I'll be posting a few more times. Off to the vineyards for some wine tasting now though.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Why I'm a Bad Person on Mother's Day
There is a ton of guilt involved in thinking bad thoughts about my mother ever since, you know, she got diagnosed with cancer and every new trip to the doctor could bring news about her impending death. I had a rough time when I was a teenager, so in turn my parents had a rough time. It took me a few years into adulthood to be able to appreciate my parents enough to overcome any anger I felt from my childhood. Still, I knew that my parents were flawed, more than a lot of parents probably.
I wasn't beaten. My mother does have anger issues and yells a lot when she gets mad at children. Not at adults, just children. She is one of those parents that has brought the guilt trip to the level of art form. I can remember having a shoe thrown at me once. I suppose if I cared to I could make a case for emotional abuse. Example: My brother is a definite black sheep. Drug problems growing up, stole from us, ran away a lot, got arrested, etc. Mom used to yell at me when she got really mad, "You're turning out just like John!" Then after a couple of years, she stopped yelling that. Instead, she yelled at my younger sister, "You're turning out just like Tina!" That cut deep. I really wasn't that bad a kid. I never did drugs, didn't drink til I was 18, got good grades, didn't get in trouble at school. I got a bad attitude sometimes. That was as bad as I got.
Considering where my mother came from with her childhood, you could say she turned around quite well, but the scars of her youth sometimes shine brightly to me. Now that I am grown, they show most not in her dealings with me but in her dealings with my father, and secondly with my niece. What are the scars? Her father was a real bastard. He beat his children and his wife. He molested the daughters. He would eat steak while the children and his wife had to eat crap food. A treat for my mother and her seven SEVEN brothers and sisters was when my grandmother snuck a bag of M & M's (the small bag) and they got to sort it into piles by color and split the piles among them all.
Then my mom got married and had my brother. While she was pregnant, her husband left her for another woman, except he lied to her, saying he was going to a different state for a job and would come back for her when he was settled. When she found out the truth, soon after giving birth, she dumped all his shit onto the front lawn and washed her hands of him. This forced her to have to move back in with my grandparents until she married my dad four years later. So yeah, she has good reason for her anger toward men, and I do honestly think she never realizes how horrible she is being to my father but still . . . it is so hard to witness. It was hard enough when I was growing up but now that I am an adult who has been in relationships of my own, it is even harder to witness.
Example: My mother didn't want to celebrate Mother's Day with the Grandmonster. Understandable. So she devised a plan to invite the Grandmonster to breakfast at NINE AM, so that the obligatory time with the woman would be over with early and she could enjoy the rest of her own Mother's Day. Of course, the Grandmonster refused because it was too early. Mom told Dad that he should just go spend time with the Grandmonster on his own today. Also, she didn't want my dad involved in her plans with us girls today. She wanted time alone with us. So my dad, who is very forgetful, got up and was ready to go to breakfast with the family at 9 AM today and was upset when no one else was up. He blamed poor communication and threw a little hissy fit. (Again, more on Dad some other time.) So he went to spend an hour or so at his mother's and then my mom decided that we girls should all quick take a shower and get out of the house so we could go somewhere together! So basically we ran away from my dad today.
We were out of the house for about 4 hours; meanwhile, Dad got home and expected to find us all there so he could spend time with us. He called and we told him we were at the store getting stuff for dinner (which we were by that point, but still my mother didn't want to tell him we had really left so we could all go out for a late breakfast together). When we finally got home late in the afternoon, my mother walks into the kitchen to find a large bouquet of flowers in a vase with a gorgeous handmade card leaning against the vase. What is her immediate reaction? Surprise? Happiness? Try disgust. She clucked her tongue, rolled her eyes, and made a big production about how she's told my dad a million times "small bouquets!" This harping on my dad about buying the wrong kind of flowers went on for about ten minutes with no thank you among the muttering and bitching. I watched my dad's expression turn from being proud of himself for doing something loving to him looking like someone kicked his puppy, tears welling in his eyes. The man had been waiting at home for hours for his family to show up while we were out ditching him, and when we get home he gets yelled at for buying a gift.
This kind of scene is all too common in my parents' house but what bothered me most today was watching my sister Stacy get angry at my dad along with my mom. Stacy is turning into my mother. She treats her boyfriend nearly as badly as Mom treats Dad, and now she's taking on my mom's irrational anger toward my dad. My mother really can be a bad person and it's rubbing off on Stacy; also the twisted relationship she and my dad share has clearly affected all of their childrens' abilities to have healthy relationships of their own. More on the relationship some other time I'm sure, but really this is about how hard it is for me to come to terms with some contradicting facts.
I love my mother a lot. I will be devastated when she is gone. She is not a great person all the time; in fact, sometimes she is a downright bad person. I have guilt even thinking this because of her illness. It is always hanging over my head that I shouldn't get mad at her, I shouldn't criticize her, because she is dying. And here I am on Mother's Day thinking about the things that bother me most about my mother. Double guilt.
I wasn't beaten. My mother does have anger issues and yells a lot when she gets mad at children. Not at adults, just children. She is one of those parents that has brought the guilt trip to the level of art form. I can remember having a shoe thrown at me once. I suppose if I cared to I could make a case for emotional abuse. Example: My brother is a definite black sheep. Drug problems growing up, stole from us, ran away a lot, got arrested, etc. Mom used to yell at me when she got really mad, "You're turning out just like John!" Then after a couple of years, she stopped yelling that. Instead, she yelled at my younger sister, "You're turning out just like Tina!" That cut deep. I really wasn't that bad a kid. I never did drugs, didn't drink til I was 18, got good grades, didn't get in trouble at school. I got a bad attitude sometimes. That was as bad as I got.
Considering where my mother came from with her childhood, you could say she turned around quite well, but the scars of her youth sometimes shine brightly to me. Now that I am grown, they show most not in her dealings with me but in her dealings with my father, and secondly with my niece. What are the scars? Her father was a real bastard. He beat his children and his wife. He molested the daughters. He would eat steak while the children and his wife had to eat crap food. A treat for my mother and her seven SEVEN brothers and sisters was when my grandmother snuck a bag of M & M's (the small bag) and they got to sort it into piles by color and split the piles among them all.
Then my mom got married and had my brother. While she was pregnant, her husband left her for another woman, except he lied to her, saying he was going to a different state for a job and would come back for her when he was settled. When she found out the truth, soon after giving birth, she dumped all his shit onto the front lawn and washed her hands of him. This forced her to have to move back in with my grandparents until she married my dad four years later. So yeah, she has good reason for her anger toward men, and I do honestly think she never realizes how horrible she is being to my father but still . . . it is so hard to witness. It was hard enough when I was growing up but now that I am an adult who has been in relationships of my own, it is even harder to witness.
Example: My mother didn't want to celebrate Mother's Day with the Grandmonster. Understandable. So she devised a plan to invite the Grandmonster to breakfast at NINE AM, so that the obligatory time with the woman would be over with early and she could enjoy the rest of her own Mother's Day. Of course, the Grandmonster refused because it was too early. Mom told Dad that he should just go spend time with the Grandmonster on his own today. Also, she didn't want my dad involved in her plans with us girls today. She wanted time alone with us. So my dad, who is very forgetful, got up and was ready to go to breakfast with the family at 9 AM today and was upset when no one else was up. He blamed poor communication and threw a little hissy fit. (Again, more on Dad some other time.) So he went to spend an hour or so at his mother's and then my mom decided that we girls should all quick take a shower and get out of the house so we could go somewhere together! So basically we ran away from my dad today.
We were out of the house for about 4 hours; meanwhile, Dad got home and expected to find us all there so he could spend time with us. He called and we told him we were at the store getting stuff for dinner (which we were by that point, but still my mother didn't want to tell him we had really left so we could all go out for a late breakfast together). When we finally got home late in the afternoon, my mother walks into the kitchen to find a large bouquet of flowers in a vase with a gorgeous handmade card leaning against the vase. What is her immediate reaction? Surprise? Happiness? Try disgust. She clucked her tongue, rolled her eyes, and made a big production about how she's told my dad a million times "small bouquets!" This harping on my dad about buying the wrong kind of flowers went on for about ten minutes with no thank you among the muttering and bitching. I watched my dad's expression turn from being proud of himself for doing something loving to him looking like someone kicked his puppy, tears welling in his eyes. The man had been waiting at home for hours for his family to show up while we were out ditching him, and when we get home he gets yelled at for buying a gift.
This kind of scene is all too common in my parents' house but what bothered me most today was watching my sister Stacy get angry at my dad along with my mom. Stacy is turning into my mother. She treats her boyfriend nearly as badly as Mom treats Dad, and now she's taking on my mom's irrational anger toward my dad. My mother really can be a bad person and it's rubbing off on Stacy; also the twisted relationship she and my dad share has clearly affected all of their childrens' abilities to have healthy relationships of their own. More on the relationship some other time I'm sure, but really this is about how hard it is for me to come to terms with some contradicting facts.
I love my mother a lot. I will be devastated when she is gone. She is not a great person all the time; in fact, sometimes she is a downright bad person. I have guilt even thinking this because of her illness. It is always hanging over my head that I shouldn't get mad at her, I shouldn't criticize her, because she is dying. And here I am on Mother's Day thinking about the things that bother me most about my mother. Double guilt.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
I Had a Nice Dream
Last night I dreamed that I just met a guy and we really clicked. His face is fading fast from my memory but I know he was tall (of course everyone is tall next to me) and had dark hair. He made me happy. He sent me flowers for my graduation in the dream and I told him I liked him a lot. He thought I said I loved him and since we had only known each other a week or two, he was naturally a little shocked. We both laughed when I repeated what I really said. My friend wanted to make sure that we didn't rush into things too fast--specifically that we didn't move in together--to which I replied that I have always meant what I said about not wanting to live with a man again until I was getting married. (This I should probably post on later.)
The point I took away from the dream was that I was happy and ready to have a relationship again--in a year, when I am graduating--but I will be ready and I will be happy with a guy again.
Later tonightI will post an unconventional Mother's Day piece.
The point I took away from the dream was that I was happy and ready to have a relationship again--in a year, when I am graduating--but I will be ready and I will be happy with a guy again.
Later tonightI will post an unconventional Mother's Day piece.
Smart Tina and Not So Smart Tina
So an interesting little story that will amuse all:
I got a digital camera finally. I broke my old camera on my Seattle trip with my sister a year ago and a few weeks ago I finally got a new camera. So I've never had a camera that didn't require me going to the the store to get the film developed. One night I decided to, yes, take some pictures of myself in the nudd.
The next day I promptly erased them because I'm an idiot and I just knew that I would accidentally show them to someone when I was trying to show them a picture of my dog or something. Smart Tina.
Then I was talking with the FWB one night and let slip about the no longer existent naughty pictures. Of course he wanted me to take more and after much cajoling (okay just a bit of cajoling), I did. So I decided that the smart thing to do would be to download these pics to my iBook, thereby preventing any accidental viewing by casual digicam browsing friends. Smart Tina (or so I thought).
Fast forward a few days to me attempting to send a picture of my cat to a friend through iChat and oopsy, I accidentally sent a dirty picture of myself to another friend altogether. Imagine my surprise at seeing a picture of my rib cushions (nod to Dan) popping up in the window of my chat with poor-male-platonic-friend-who-shall-remain-nameless. Not So Smart Tina. Okay, Stupid Clutzy Dumb Tina.
So it was a bit awkward talking to this friend the next time but now things seem ok. And my other male friends say he probably was just thrilled to get it (which he might have been, but he is a gentleman and shy so he will never say). Smart Tina would of course have erased the incriminating pictures so such a mistake would not happen again, but I didn't.
I kind of like them.
I got a digital camera finally. I broke my old camera on my Seattle trip with my sister a year ago and a few weeks ago I finally got a new camera. So I've never had a camera that didn't require me going to the the store to get the film developed. One night I decided to, yes, take some pictures of myself in the nudd.
The next day I promptly erased them because I'm an idiot and I just knew that I would accidentally show them to someone when I was trying to show them a picture of my dog or something. Smart Tina.
Then I was talking with the FWB one night and let slip about the no longer existent naughty pictures. Of course he wanted me to take more and after much cajoling (okay just a bit of cajoling), I did. So I decided that the smart thing to do would be to download these pics to my iBook, thereby preventing any accidental viewing by casual digicam browsing friends. Smart Tina (or so I thought).
Fast forward a few days to me attempting to send a picture of my cat to a friend through iChat and oopsy, I accidentally sent a dirty picture of myself to another friend altogether. Imagine my surprise at seeing a picture of my rib cushions (nod to Dan) popping up in the window of my chat with poor-male-platonic-friend-who-shall-remain-nameless. Not So Smart Tina. Okay, Stupid Clutzy Dumb Tina.
So it was a bit awkward talking to this friend the next time but now things seem ok. And my other male friends say he probably was just thrilled to get it (which he might have been, but he is a gentleman and shy so he will never say). Smart Tina would of course have erased the incriminating pictures so such a mistake would not happen again, but I didn't.
I kind of like them.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Socially Acceptable Polygamist vs. Depraved Sex Maniac
The men in my life are a strange mix. I do not, obviously, have a boyfriend but I have men that fill various roles and all told probably add up to more than a boyfriend.
I have my Mike, who I haven't seen in a few months but did see tonight. He wants to see me next week. I agreed. I just don't get him though. At the meeting where we ran into each other tonight he was totally checking me out all night and over dinner next week again will make all these moves as if he's interested but never make the Big Move. (Which is okay I suppose since I don't have a physical attraction to him.)
There is the Friend With Benefits, who I haven't spoken to in a couple of months but have been in contact with over the last week or so. Our relationship picked up right where it left off--very sexual and that's about it. Which is okay with me. We talked about developing a deeper friendship and he said something about "more." The "more" scared me a bit. I told him the first two I was into, but the "more"--I wasn't sure how I felt about being more with anyone at this point and I'd need time to think about it. He said it would take time to get to that point anyway, so I guess that leaves us where we started--FWB--which I guess I'm okay with.
There is Eli. He is a good friend of mine who lives half the country away. He is always supportive when I have bad stuff going on and sometimes we flirt a bit but it's harmless given the distance.
There is Jake and Whitney, who have adopted me as their nonsexual third partner practically. Like their kid except I'm older than both of them. Sort of like that couple from California with the killer dogs that adopted that grown man in prison. (No I'm not in prison.) They take me fun places.
I have a couple of other male friends that fall somewhere between good friend and mere aquaintance: Jerry, Whit's Mike, Seth and Ryan (they are a pair--not in a sexual way!), Eddie.
All this leaves me...confused about men. I have all of my needs fulfilled and then some between all these guys but I still feel like there is a different path expected of me by my friends. I feel like Single Girl, whose friends can't wait to see her settle down or something.
And yes, sometimes I find myself wanting more of these aspects in one man (mostly when I am upset), but more often I am very happy with the men in my life. It's like I am a socially acceptable polygamist.
When I'm not feeling like a depraved sex maniac.
I have my Mike, who I haven't seen in a few months but did see tonight. He wants to see me next week. I agreed. I just don't get him though. At the meeting where we ran into each other tonight he was totally checking me out all night and over dinner next week again will make all these moves as if he's interested but never make the Big Move. (Which is okay I suppose since I don't have a physical attraction to him.)
There is the Friend With Benefits, who I haven't spoken to in a couple of months but have been in contact with over the last week or so. Our relationship picked up right where it left off--very sexual and that's about it. Which is okay with me. We talked about developing a deeper friendship and he said something about "more." The "more" scared me a bit. I told him the first two I was into, but the "more"--I wasn't sure how I felt about being more with anyone at this point and I'd need time to think about it. He said it would take time to get to that point anyway, so I guess that leaves us where we started--FWB--which I guess I'm okay with.
There is Eli. He is a good friend of mine who lives half the country away. He is always supportive when I have bad stuff going on and sometimes we flirt a bit but it's harmless given the distance.
There is Jake and Whitney, who have adopted me as their nonsexual third partner practically. Like their kid except I'm older than both of them. Sort of like that couple from California with the killer dogs that adopted that grown man in prison. (No I'm not in prison.) They take me fun places.
I have a couple of other male friends that fall somewhere between good friend and mere aquaintance: Jerry, Whit's Mike, Seth and Ryan (they are a pair--not in a sexual way!), Eddie.
All this leaves me...confused about men. I have all of my needs fulfilled and then some between all these guys but I still feel like there is a different path expected of me by my friends. I feel like Single Girl, whose friends can't wait to see her settle down or something.
And yes, sometimes I find myself wanting more of these aspects in one man (mostly when I am upset), but more often I am very happy with the men in my life. It's like I am a socially acceptable polygamist.
When I'm not feeling like a depraved sex maniac.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Not So Small Sins
I finished my last exam and I think I did okay on it. Now just a final report on my research to finish.
I'm still wondering about morality. When you examine historical documents from any religion, there are some basic morals imparted, usually the big ones: Don't kill or steal. Don't be hating on God(s). Don't covet, and so on. But there are also lots of little morals that are ingrained in all of us, whether religious or not.
I don't expect most people to break the biggies but I am amazed at how many small crimes we each commit every day: White lies, tiny betrayals and bigger betrayals, cheating a bit here or there, etc.
I do it. Everyone does. We all commit small sins but sometimes the tolerance we develop from these smaller ones leads to bigger ones, and when you've gone and committed a bigger moral mistake, you reason it away just like the small ones. It's the slippery slope that everyone warns you about.
Then suddenly you realize how horrible you have managed to be to someone that you really love, and maybe they don't even know it. And it is too late. Too late and DO NOT CONFESS. Not so you can get away with it but because, after much consideration, I really think that to confess to someone who is living in blissful unawareness of what you have done is unfair to them.
What happens? You assuage your guilt at the expense of that person's feelings. You destroy someone's sense of the world and dare to ask forgiveness afterward? More shame on you than you deserve just for committing the wrong in the first place.
What you deserve is not forgiveness, not at the expense of someone else's innocence. Let them keep their sense of security in the world. They certainly deserve that more than you do. Feel badly. Feel horribly. And keep it to yourself. That is your punishment.
Live with your guilt and never tell anyone.
Yes, I am guilty.
I'm still wondering about morality. When you examine historical documents from any religion, there are some basic morals imparted, usually the big ones: Don't kill or steal. Don't be hating on God(s). Don't covet, and so on. But there are also lots of little morals that are ingrained in all of us, whether religious or not.
I don't expect most people to break the biggies but I am amazed at how many small crimes we each commit every day: White lies, tiny betrayals and bigger betrayals, cheating a bit here or there, etc.
I do it. Everyone does. We all commit small sins but sometimes the tolerance we develop from these smaller ones leads to bigger ones, and when you've gone and committed a bigger moral mistake, you reason it away just like the small ones. It's the slippery slope that everyone warns you about.
Then suddenly you realize how horrible you have managed to be to someone that you really love, and maybe they don't even know it. And it is too late. Too late and DO NOT CONFESS. Not so you can get away with it but because, after much consideration, I really think that to confess to someone who is living in blissful unawareness of what you have done is unfair to them.
What happens? You assuage your guilt at the expense of that person's feelings. You destroy someone's sense of the world and dare to ask forgiveness afterward? More shame on you than you deserve just for committing the wrong in the first place.
What you deserve is not forgiveness, not at the expense of someone else's innocence. Let them keep their sense of security in the world. They certainly deserve that more than you do. Feel badly. Feel horribly. And keep it to yourself. That is your punishment.
Live with your guilt and never tell anyone.
Yes, I am guilty.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Unfinished Thoughts
There is so much I could be writing about right now. I have all kinds of thoughts swimming around in my head but I feel like they are all half formed. I'd like to take the time to finish them all but I really don't have the time tonight since I have to get up early in the morning to begin the all-day cram session for my last exam.
So I guess this is a cram session of sorts for my blog. I need to finish all these thoughts later on:
So I guess this is a cram session of sorts for my blog. I need to finish all these thoughts later on:
- Why do I so easily let friends slip out of my life? (Right now I'm thinking of Neil. Maybe he'll read this and realize I'm thinking of him again.)
- My parents have an unhappy marriage; lots of stuff to ruminate on there that I never have yet but it's been bugging me lately.
- I am confused about men. I guess that isn't a new thought and certainly not an original one.
- Why do people do immoral things? I don't mean in a religious, you-are-going-to-hell- for-living-with-your-boyfriend way but in a you-know-it's-wrong-and-could-hurt- someone way.
- And I'm not religious but consider myself spiritual and need to explore that a bit more. My life lacks meaning right now, but I don't believe God will bring that meaning. I need to figure out how to find meaning on my own.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
My Lovely Little Lady Lumps
My boobs have been the focus of much conversation lately.
The other day, I wore my "Irish Girls Rule" t shirt which has a shamrock strategically placed on each ta ta. Upon my entering the restaurant for dinner, the hostess said, "I like your shirt!" and she said it all solicitously while staring at my melons. Then the waitress said the same thing, also very lesbian-toned, while also staring at my knockers.
Jake asked if he could touch my shamrocks.
Today we have a team presentation for our research project, which was for an organization with a lesbian director, who (not because she is a lesbian, just because) is a total biotch. So, without consulting one another, Whit and I both ended up deciding to wear low-cut shirts today to accentuate our Pointer Sisters so that we could get on the Director's good side.
Whitney says she sweats in her cleavage and I said that I do not. She said that's because her muffins touch each other, and everyone else who was around the computer lab agreed that they sweat in their cleavage because their bra buddies also touch. It appears that mine are the only bazongas that do not. So I flashed all the girls in the lab and asked them if my snuggle pups were weird. They said no but I don't believe them.
Then we went to Starbuck's for coffee and as I took the first sip of my blackberry green tea frappuccino, I spilled frappuccino down my chest and (because of the low-cut cami) right between my dueling banjos so I was forced to grab a napkin and essentially maul my own milk wagons in public.
So that is the story of my nippers, my ear muffs, my sweet rolls, my paw patties. And now I must go give my presentation with my big boppers on display.
The other day, I wore my "Irish Girls Rule" t shirt which has a shamrock strategically placed on each ta ta. Upon my entering the restaurant for dinner, the hostess said, "I like your shirt!" and she said it all solicitously while staring at my melons. Then the waitress said the same thing, also very lesbian-toned, while also staring at my knockers.
Jake asked if he could touch my shamrocks.
Today we have a team presentation for our research project, which was for an organization with a lesbian director, who (not because she is a lesbian, just because) is a total biotch. So, without consulting one another, Whit and I both ended up deciding to wear low-cut shirts today to accentuate our Pointer Sisters so that we could get on the Director's good side.
Whitney says she sweats in her cleavage and I said that I do not. She said that's because her muffins touch each other, and everyone else who was around the computer lab agreed that they sweat in their cleavage because their bra buddies also touch. It appears that mine are the only bazongas that do not. So I flashed all the girls in the lab and asked them if my snuggle pups were weird. They said no but I don't believe them.
Then we went to Starbuck's for coffee and as I took the first sip of my blackberry green tea frappuccino, I spilled frappuccino down my chest and (because of the low-cut cami) right between my dueling banjos so I was forced to grab a napkin and essentially maul my own milk wagons in public.
So that is the story of my nippers, my ear muffs, my sweet rolls, my paw patties. And now I must go give my presentation with my big boppers on display.
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